


All My Sins Remembered

by grumpyphoenix



Series: Various Bangs [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean/Cas Big Bang 2019 (Supernatural), Dom/sub Undertones, Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse Remembered, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrealistic Choking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-31 19:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21151088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyphoenix/pseuds/grumpyphoenix
Summary: Crown Prince of Mordavia, Dean Winchester, returns home after receiving a cryptic note. He finds the King, his Father, dead, and his Mother married to his adoptive Uncle. Dean's long lost lover, Castiel, languishes in prison for murder and treason. Can Dean save him and the kingdom, or will he run from his fate?





	1. Something Rotten in Mordavia

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my brilliant artist, [Shealynn88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88), who put up with constant re-writes, absences, and my endless frustration. I have some beautiful art for this piece, and I'm over the moon. 
> 
> Thank you to [ Lotrspnfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl) for the late night emergency editing. I revised and rewrote this thing so many times that she had a huge job on her hands. She is ruthless and talented. Check her work out!
> 
> A note: Yes, there are a lot of references in this, you are not imagining it. EDIT: I don't mean the obvious Hamlet ones.

The train passes like a silver bullet past the border of Mordavia through the mountains at midnight. Lost in thought, Dean watches the dark shapes speed past, trees drenched in starlight. If he wanted to be obvious, he could just stay on the train and get off in a few hours when it stopped in the capital. In some ways it might be easier just to brazen it out, make a big splash in the papers by coming home early when he clearly wasn’t wanted. He could see it now:  _ Prince Dean Forced to Crash Own Father’s Funeral - Is the Succession in Jeopardy? _

Instead, he’s already decided to get off the train early and hike through the countryside until he reaches the Wallachstein Estate and set up camp there. It will be easier to figure out his next move when he’s amongst friends.

Even with all his practice in sneaking around, getting into the country without someone knowing he’s back will be nearly impossible. He should’ve let Charlie get him that fake ID; he hadn’t received an A in his last stage makeup class for nothing. Sadly, he was too built for drag now, which would be both the best way to not be noticed as well as a great way to piss off his -- 

Dean swallows hard, clenching a fist. He’d almost forgotten the reason he needed to be so sneaky coming home. His father was dead. King John was dead, and not only had they not sent for his oldest son, they’d locked up the Duke of Wallachstein for murdering him. 

As much as Dean loved pissing his father off, he’d always counted on seeing him again. He’d have approved of his adventure tonight, Dean mused as he strapped his backpack on securely. Two miles to Littleton, a few hours from the capital. Common sense said it was easier to wait till the train got to the station, but the wide-eyed look that came over the face of the woman who’d sold him the ticket meant there’s now a rumor the Prince is on the train.

He peers out the window at the night sky. Yeah. The old man’s vindictive streak would have appreciated Dean’s determined trek home through the woods during a full moon to confront his mother over this. The journey won’t be anything but fun, his father’s version of fun, that’s for sure. He checks to be certain his rifle is secured and easy to reach. Pulling the emergency cord, he forces one of the doors and jumps out of the train even as it’s still rolling to a stop. 

The moon is already at its height, heavy bellied, casting everything in a bright silver light. He hits the ground running and keeps at it, pelting across acres of farmland, vaulting over low stone walls. It’s easier around the farms and small villages; he is kept safe by the practical people of his country. Rows of Wolfsbane planted along the edges of every property keep the monsters at bay. It was highly dangerous, but all children knew the plant by sight, hardly anyone got poisoned by accident any more. He runs brazenly from field to field. If anyone did see him, they would know him to be at least human and moving too fast to bother with a shotgun.

Pausing to catch his breath at the edge of a quiet farm, he looks at the long road leading towards the next small village. This is where he needs to be extra careful. A quick look at his watch confirms that the train has already made it to the station after Littleton, even with the unscheduled stop. The Royal Guard will be going through the train, both to confirm that he was on it and to try to find him. Eventually, they’re going to catch on to his plan and come after him. If he’s walking along the road they’ll see him sooner rather than later; they have vehicles and he doesn’t. But if he goes into the woods, he’s absolutely going to have a fight. Possibly more than one. Werewolves have the teamwork of wolves with the strategy sense of a human, and if he’s not careful, he won’t come back out of the forest.

If he’s going to go the sane route, he needs a vehicle. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have money to pay any of these farmers for their cars and he is not stealing from his own subjects. He could ask to borrow one, but revealing himself would be a mistake and embroil some poor farmer in his family drama. For a moment, he allows himself to wallow. Maybe he should wait for the Guard, just turn his cellphone on and let them track him. He runs his hand through his hair and it catches the light, the sparkle of fire on one of his fingers plays with the moonlight. Dean shakes himself out of it. Someone else is depending on him getting through this. Mouth tightening into a hard line, he drops the pack on the ground and squats next to it.

Preparing for a run through the woods takes time and thought, so he doesn’t allow himself to think about the ring or the man who gave it to him. He makes sure the rifle is loaded with silver bullets, that his knife and his handgun are easily reached, that there is nothing extraneous hanging down on his pack or his person that’s easily ripped or caught. Then, and only then, does he kiss the ring quietly, blue eyes and the memory of a startled and happy laugh shoring up his resolve. He jogs, entering the woods as quietly as he can, but not really caring too much about that. The monsters don’t need to hear him to find him. A steady jog will get him through easier. 

* * *

The world is easing into morning, the sky turning easter pink when he stumbles out of the woods on the edge of the Wallachstein Estate. Covered in blood, some of it his own, he drops tiredly to his knees in the dewy grass. A hard, mirthless laugh scrapes out him; after everything he’s been through tonight, he still has to figure out what to do about approaching the house. If he doesn’t get a place to rest soon, he’s going to collapse right here. He can’t just walk right up and ask to get in, because the Duke is in jail. The chance that one of his relatives has already swooped in to play “Lord of the Manor” is non trivial. If he’s lucky, Gabriel has left off getting high and clubbing in the capital to come and safeguard his brother’s home. If he’s unlucky, his cousin Naomi is here, and she has always had designs on the title, the money, and all the power. Not only would she take the opportunity to turn him into the Guard for points with his mother, but she’d search the place thoroughly, and that would suck for both he and the Duke. 

The stone monstrosity broods here, built to withstand attack, not be beautiful. Some dusty and forgotten Duke had attempted to remedy that by installing gardens and planting oak trees everywhere, oak trees that had grown over the years into an almost miniature forest within the grounds. It gives Dean plenty of cover to get most of the way towards the building before having to sprint, ducking and weaving through tall ornamental grasses and lilies so fragrant it makes his head spin. Running on fumes, Dean staggers through it, eyes on the prize, hoping that he hasn’t pushed his luck too far. It’s just early enough that the household staff is starting their working day, so he might be able to get into the stables if he’s careful and quiet. 

As children, he and the Duke played in the basement and attics long enough to know all their secrets. Ages ago, they’d found an ancient escape tunnel through the stables, and he prays that it’s still accessible. Just before he gets there, he runs out of cover, and is forced to run flat out for the building, heart pounding with overexertion and the fear of discovery.

No voice calls out, no hand stops him, and Dean presses himself flat against the outside wall, listening to the staff within as they start their morning duties. He can practically hear his father’s voice in his head -  _ Patience, boy. Listen to their movements, follow behind them, don’t panic. _ Slipping within the stable on silent hunter’s feet, he does just that, crouching when he needs to, knee-walking inch by inch until he gets to the last stall. When they were boys, the floor was the same wood that had originally been with the stable, laid in a pattern that was hard on the eyes. As he makes his way towards his goal, he notices the floor is now something modern and it makes his stomach sink. The Duke had everything torn up, there’s no way the tunnel is still there. It’s not like he blames the guy, it has to be a sore point for him. Still, maybe he can sleep in the stall itself if he’s quiet. 

With great care, he inches the door open and secures himself inside. This stall was never filled with a horse while they were boys and it still sits vacant, used as storage. With a relief that brings tears to his eyes, he sees that in  _ this _ stall, the floor is still the same. Dean gently moves things around until memory kicks in and he finds the trap door, cleverly disguised in the pattern on the floor. Holding his breath and hoping the hinges won’t squeak, he opens it. 

The Duke has been maintaining it, it seems, because it swings wide with no noise. Dean slips through it and into the tunnel without incident, closing it behind him. Climbing down the ladder in the dark, he lets his eyes adjust. It’s cool here, almost chilly. He shivers in the dark, flooded with memory. Letting muscle memory take over, he starts walking, thinking about the Duke. About Castiel. 

When they were nine, escaping from the boring talk and oppressive formality of some occasion at the house, they’d hidden in that stall and found the trap door, the tunnel, and the small room on the other side. At first, they’d used it as a club house, storing comics and other contraband there; countless hours just doing their own thing. Then later, when they got older - Dean clenches his hands into fists against the surge of bittersweet memories.

He isn’t sure what to expect when he gets there. An empty room, maybe. Dean is not at all prepared to find it exactly the way they’d left it. Nearly a decade passed, and it is still the same. Castiel hadn’t done anything to it since he’d returned from University, other than keep it clean. There’s no cobwebs, no weird mold smell. Taking a minute, flooded with nostalgia, he absorbs the sight of everything - his bookshelves, still filled with every play Dean had been obsessed with as a teenager. The ancient oil lamp, filled with oil. The bed, God, the bed. Dean lights the lamp, even though he’d almost be happier in the dark, and sets his flashlight down on the table. 

By the warm light of the lamp, he can see that he wasn’t entirely correct. There are small changes. New books in a pile next to the bed, a few knick knacks on the shelves. The wall, formerly covered in movie posters, now has a poster from seemingly every production that Dean has been a part of in the states, no matter how large his part. Castiel has been down here for years, missing him. Not moving on. It hurts, almost more than any wound on his body. He hadn’t moved on either, but he had somehow expected that Castiel would - Castiel, with his flashing, imperious eyes, his sinfully disarranged hair, his elegant hands. Dean had thought that he would have someone new within months. 

Dean wants to wallow in the pain, but instead he lets training take over and strips down to bare skin. The wounds will fester if he doesn’t treat them, and he won’t be any good to Castiel if he becomes a werewolf. Dropping his backpack on the bed, he makes himself take out all the things he’ll need, setting them up in a methodical line. Alcohol, sterile bandages, his wound stitching kit. Next to it he places the vacuum packed needle. 

A century ago, his family would have used a highly dangerous mix of monkshood and other herbs as a poultice, packing the wound and hoping the patient didn’t die from the cure itself. But now they have doctors. Very ingenious, open minded doctors. The sort of doctors that become villains in comic books. He cleans the wounds, stitching them as best he can. Taking a deep breath and letting it out again, he opens the package and injects himself with the one-use syringe. While it’s not going to kill him, the fallout from the drug is intense. When he’s used it in the past, he’s always been looked after - this time he’ll have to go it alone. It’s going to suck. This room, meant for escape, is soundproofed, so he knows no one will hear the screaming.

He doesn’t want to lie on the bed. Too many intense memories push at him. He’s already shaking though; he’s tired to be sure, but it’s the drug sapping him now. He sits, eyes welling up with tears he  _ will not _ shed. He’s on the bed, on  _ their bed _ , and it’s fine. He’ll be fine. Like a deflating balloon, his body makes the decision his mind can’t, as he collapses backwards, gripped with fever.


	2. Doubt Thou The Stars Are Fire

Castiel, drenched in sweat, pulls away from their kiss to sit upright. He’s still riding Dean, his own cock hard and dripping. He has been at it for a mind-bendingly long time. When they both get too close, he stills and takes a break for marathon kissing, exploration of each other’s mouths, fingers tangled in hair and trailed along the jaw, wrapped ever so lightly around Dean’s throat. Castiel has marked his neck, each time whispering while he bites -  _ mine, all mine.  _ Looking down with half lidded eyes, he starts again, thighs flexing and straining as he slowly fucks himself with Dean’s cock.

All Dean can do is watch helplessly, arms bound above his head. He’d be unable to do anything else regardless, spellbound by his lover’s beauty. He wants to come, in the worst way, but at the same time, the pleasure is endless, time has no meaning. Dean is lost in Castiel, reduced to happily begging for what he wants. 

“Cas…” he heaves the word out, guttural.

Castiel chuckles, back arched, imperious look. “Yes, your Highness?”

Dean’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and he swallows thickly, laughing deep within his chest. “Oh, no, don’t start that.”

His lover bares his teeth in a savage smile. “My darling, it is ever on my mind.” 

In answer, Dean thrusts his hips upwards, making Castiel hiss and close his eyes. “And you know my answer, damn you.” 

Castiel licks his lips, eyes still closed. Whispering, he asks, “Tell me again.” 

He starts moving his hips once more in a slow rhythm punctuated by Dean’s own desperate gasps for air.

“Cas… my angel...”

Castiel wraps a hand around his own slick, tortured cock, pumping. “What if I ask for your loyalty?”

“Yes!”

“What if I ask for your fortune, your future, your home?”

“You can have any of it!”

“Your throne?”

“I renounce it!” Dean, eyes glassy and crazed, tries in vain to reach Castiel’s lips, whimpering for a kiss. 

Castiel stops moving through an act of iron will, both of them trembling on the edge of orgasm, his eyes open and burning on Dean’s. “I do not. I ask only for your love.”

He raises himself up on his knees, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He keeps going, slowly sliding Dean’s cock out. His eyes flutter just a little at the tortured sob that escapes Dean when he’s done. Castiel inches upwards until he straddles Dean’s chest, looking down at him.

“I should leave you here and take my own pleasure alone. Leave you stuffed with a plug in your ass and wait until you learn to beg me properly.” Castiel’s dick is inches from Dean’s lips. He rubs it there, pulling it away every time Dean tries to lick it. Slowly, stroking himself, he teases until Dean breaks.

He wails, pulling on his bindings so hard that they dig into his wrists, shaking the bed. “ _ Dear heart,  _ please, please!”

Castiel laughs in joy, pumping his cock. “Open your mouth, my prince.”


	3. A Rogue And Peasant Slave

Dean rides the dream orgasm into consciousness, arching off the bed, Castiel’s name a shout still echoing off the walls when he drops back down onto the mattress. He looks at the ceiling blankly, the sound of this ragged breath the only thing breaking the silence for far too long. 

As soon as he’s caught his breath, Dean rolls over and rubs his eyes, trying to shake the foggy tendrils of sleep still clinging to him, already assessing his body as he does. He’s cramped and sweaty, arm aching like hell, but he  _ seems _ okay. Peeling back the bandages on his arm gingerly, he can see that it’s still fresh, bleeding sluggishly from where he’s ripped the stitches in the night. Some of his tension bleeds away; he’s not healed, so he’s still human. 

Stretching and popping his shoulder, he shuffles into the small bathroom that Cas had the foresight to install years ago - just a toilet and a sink, but it’s better than  _ not _ having one. The towel hanging here is fresh, so it becomes a makeshift washcloth. He cleans himself at the tap, as best he can. The water is cold, but it’s welcome. He’s sweaty, bloody, and smells awful. 

With else nothing to occupy him, his thoughts return to the dream. It’s sharp and painful like a jagged piece of glass caught in his throat. That very dream was a recurring memory that had haunted him for months after Castiel had left to return to Mordavia. He’d had it every night for almost a year until something gave and it slowed down, but he’s still plagued by it from time to time. Having it now was predictable with the clarity of hindsight. He does wish his own psyche would stop it, though. 

The freezing water never gets better, but it helps him to focus. By the time he’s shaved and brushed his teeth, he’s shivering, but actively thinking about plans instead of the past. New clothing out of his pack sticks to his wet skin and does nothing to help, but that’s fine. He reloads his rifle and repacks the bag, and when he can’t stall any longer, pulls a small, sparkly pink flip phone from his bag and turns it on, sitting back on the bed to wait. 

It doesn’t take long for the phone to ring and he answers it. “Charlie.”

“Dean! You’re okay! I was worried all night, you shit. Where are you?”

“I’m sorry. I ran into some trouble on the way in and needed to use a syringe. I’m in an underground room at Novak’s house.” 

“Awesome. I’m going to tell Rowena the spell to boost the signal worked, she’s going to be so insufferable about it.” He can hear her grin as she talks and it makes him long to leave, go back to his new home and not deal with this. 

Instead he just forces a laugh. “You’ll deserve the gloating and you know it. So what’s the word?”

“Not much. There’s been a pretty effective news blackout on this from your mother. It’s not that hard, Mordavia is never really on anyone’s radar. The lowdown from the internet though is that they have Castiel in custody for treason. He’s being held at the palace itself.”

Dean sighs. “Well, that means I have to see my family sooner rather than later. It does mean that they don’t think he actually did it though. The cells there are practically a movie set. Is there any word on how he died?”

Charlie clicks her tongue ring against her bottom teeth. “Nothing. Why are you talking to me and not your brother?”

He thinks about not answering, but freezing her out at this point in their lives seems stupid. It would drive his father nuts, all this openness. Fuck him anyway. “Sam and I didn’t part well. My father held a lot of sway with his opinions on my love life. When I got the ultimatum, he sided with Dad.”

There’s a disgusted noise over the line. “I know this already, Dean. Didn’t you patch things up a few years ago?”

He snorts, “We sent some letters back and forth. He’s… well, he’s stubborn. He’s my best ally, but I don’t know if he’s mad enough to turn me in. Probably, we’ll punch each other in the eye and apologize, then it’ll be safe. That madman Ketch is still here and I blame him for all of this crap with Cas, pouring his poison into my father’s ear for years. I can’t be sure Sam isn’t under his sway yet.”

Charlie clicks her tongue ring against her teeth, the sound amplified through the receiver. “Yeah, okay, I get it. I gotta go, green eyes. Call if you need me, come home with your head still attached. We’ll all be waiting for you.” 

Dean flips the phone shut, running his thumb over the rhinestones along the back of it while he thinks. Three hours to the capital and the roads will be crawling with Ketch’s goons and Royal Guards alike. He’s going to need help. Time to find out where Gabriel stands. He opens the flip phone and dials one of the four pre-programmed numbers.

“Mario’s Pizzeria.”

“Hilarious.”

Silence. 

“Hello? Gabe?”

“Your Highness, good to hear from you.” Gabriel sounds wary, his tone just a shade too nonchalant. “Don’t call me Gabe.”

“How is he?”

“Well, he’s not happy. He keeps saying some garbage about you coming to rescue him. I tried to tell him that you could give a shit, but he won’t hear it.”

“Ok-ay. So you’re pissed.”

Gabriel sounds like he’s choking on the other end. “Yes, I’m fucking pissed. You abandoning Mordavia and my brother aside, Castiel kill the King?  _ Castiel? _ I mean, they weren’t best friends, but for fuck’s sake. And you, who should’ve been here, you’re on the other side of the world. Acting. On a stage.”

“Not just that, dammit. I’ve been hunting. I have a whole group of… you know what,  _ Novak _ , I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“You can’t pull that rank crap on me now, not after everything,” he retorts. “What do you want, anyway? They won’t let me bring a phone to him and I’m not personally delivering any messages of love or whatever.”

“Fuck, you’re dense. Gabriel, I’m here.”

Gabriel is quiet for so long that Dean starts to think that he’s hung up. Finally, Dean just clears his throat. 

“Yeah, okay, you’re here.” Gabriel’s voice is soft. Dangerous. “There’s a lot we should talk about. Uhm. Where is ‘here’, by the way?”

Dean laughs. “I’m in your wine cellar.”

“Sneaky bastard. Well, it’s good for you that I was able to beat Naomi off with a stick, then. I’ll be there in five.”

Dean gets his gear together and carefully uses the secret door into the wine cellar, peeking out the peephole first. He isn’t sure if Gabriel knows about the secret room now, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. It feels like one of the only tenuous links he still has with Castiel, their secret hide-away from everyone and everything.

A few minutes later, Gabriel comes down the stairs, alone. His blonde hair is lank and tangled as if he hasn’t bathed or stopped running nervous hands in it for days. Aside from being a bit older than Dean remembers, he’s a familiar and friendly sight. Dean goes to embrace him, but Gabriel takes a step back, eyeing him.

“I don’t think you should be here. This white knight routine is only going to hurt Castiel. You’ll save him and then leave, and he… It took a long time to get him back, and even now he’s on the edge.”

Dean licks his lips. “I have to see him.”

“And then what? That’s what I mean. Are you here to take your throne? You should be, goddamnit. If you’re going to do the right thing and not step down, you need to hurry.”

Dean frowns. “Gabe, what is going on?”

Gabriel runs his hands through his hair, glaring at Dean, fairly vibrating with hostility. “ _ Fuck, _ you haven’t even thought about this, have you? You geared up and came charging in here like a Winchester, without a plan or even thinking through the consequences. You want to know what’s going on? Your father’s been dead two months. Yeah, thought that would get your attention. Two months and no word from you, which I get, cause your mom is a sneaky bitch, but none of the rest of the country know that she’s throttled the official news channels coming out of here. To your subjects, you’re an absentee,  _ your Highness _ .”

“Gabriel! What in the hell is going on?”

He smiles a brittle smile. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to figure it out for yourself, won’t you. Godammit, I should turn you in myself. I’m just as likely to end up at the end of a rope at this rate.”

Dean takes a step forward, reaching out. “Help me get him out of the country. If they really think he murdered my father, they’ll kill him.” 

Gabriel shies away from Dean’s touch as if it might burn him. “No. No, I’ll get you to the capital, to the palace, but you’re going from there on by yourself. This romantic notion of breaking Castiel out of jail is asinine, but I do suggest you try to see him alone before anyone knows you’re here. Once you make yourself known, Ketch will well, it’s impossible to know what the hell he’ll do, but I can guarantee it’ll be violent.” 

He stops talking, breathing through whatever panic is running through his head. When he’s done, he grimaces. “I”m sorry. After they arrested my brother, I spent some quality time with his new and improved Men of Letters. It was... instructive. Come on out to the garage, your Highness. I’ll drive you.”

Dean sneers. “So eager to take the title from him that you’ll let him literally hang for this?”

Gabriel surges forward, grabbing him by the shirt and slamming him up against a rack of what was probably priceless wine, the bottles rattling and threatening to fall to the ground.

“ _ How dare you?”  _ he hisses in Dean’s face. His breath is sour from days of neglect. “I kept him alive when he came back - me, no one else _ . He had no one, you fucking prick, no one cared if he lived or died!” _

He slams Dean up against the wine rack again and holds him there, breathing in and out, calming himself. Finally in control again, he lets Dean go, spitting on the ground at his feet. “Come with me now before I change my mind.” 

After all the sneaking around, it’s strange to simply walk to the garage and get into Gabriel’s ostentatious Ferrari without a care who sees them. Then they take off at such a clip it would be impossible to see him regardless. Gabe turns on pop music at an obnoxious volume, making it impossible to talk, so eventually Dean gives up. He’s still tired from the syringe, the fight with Gabriel, and his own spiralling thoughts, so he slumps down into his seat and lets his eyes close. He drifts off, remembering a sun dappled afternoon so long ago it feels like a lifetime.


	4. Doubt That The Sun Doth Shine

Dean’s balancing on a fallen log. It stretches out over the river, which is swollen with recent rains. The sun, in a full on summer blaze, is high overhead, and so he has his shirt off. Castiel, already waist deep in the water, is watching him hungrily. Dean loves the way he looks at him and tends to show off, like now, doing an easy handstand on the log before dropping into the water.

“When I’m King,” he says, surfacing, “I will have you by my side always.” 

Castiel laughs, splashing him. “Of course, you nitwit. But you don’t have to worry about that. Your dad will live forever, and even before that, we get to leave. Think about it. University. In a few months, even.” 

Dean bats his eyes, leaning against a rock. “Of course, but who knows. Perhaps I will find a beautiful woman to become my bride there.” 

In a flash, Castiel has him turned around and pressed against the rock, one arm around his waist and his lips at Dean’s ear. He whispers, “Never. You will always be mine. Shall we see how well I can fuck you here in the creek, for God and all his creatures to see?”

Dean groans, tilting his head back to bare his neck. “God can watch if he likes, let him be jealous. I worship at a different altar now.” 

With a pleased purr, Castiel takes him there, unashamed and free, heedless of who may be watching. 


	5. Heaven And Earth

Gabriel is smacking him on the head. “Wake up, dammit.”

“Ow, fuck, Gabriel!  _ Stop _ . I’m awake already.” 

It’s dark, the moon obscured by bright lazy clouds. It takes a little bit, but Dean finally recognizes where he is. The prison, called ‘the dungeon’ by everyone except his father who had never thought it was funny, sits in a low squat building behind the palace. Over the centuries it’s been used to house Nobles, political prisoners, and the occasional noble-turned-monster, languishing here while the royal family figured out how to deal with them.

“How did you get us past the guards at the gate, anyway?”

Gabriel shrugs. “I know a few tricks.”

Dean squints at the building. “It’s been updated.”

Gabriel nods, his face unreadable. “Ketch. Your father wouldn’t let him go digital with security though. It has cameras, but they’re all about fifty years old. They have guards sitting at a bank of monitors, just like some old movie.”

“Well, yeah. Ghosts have a real way with frying electronics. I know a way in.” 

“Ugh, I know. Cas wouldn’t shut up about that and now I can’t scrub the image of you playing sex games in a literal dungeon out of my mind. Get out of my car, your royalness. I have to go home and make sure my esteemed cousin doesn’t come and steal the silver.”

Dean gets out, leaning down to talk through the half-open window. “Thanks, Gabe. I mean it.” 

“Don’t thank me. There’s nothing good happening here - something stinks. To high heaven.” He starts the car, and despite it being night time, puts on a pair of shades. Looking over them at Dean he says, “And don’t call me Gabe.”

As the car drives off, Dean can’t shake the way his nerves jangle. He skirts around the building and keeps walking past it, all the way to the edge of the estate where the utility sheds are. It doesn’t take long, despite the recent addition of more buildings, to find the right one and break in. When he was a kid, this place was a mess, but it looks like someone efficient has finally organized here. All the same, the royal seal imprinted into the concrete is still there. Dean reaches down into the center of the seal and presses down, turning clockwise as he does. There’s a hiss as the entire thing rotates and pops up, revealing a ladder into another secret tunnel. Seems like their lives have always been defined by secrets and lies. 

He travels down it, gun held at the ready. As kids, Sam had somehow found a way in here during a hide and seek game. He and Cas had gone looking instead of telling John, and found more than just Sam. It was the first time either of them had known that Cas wasn’t entirely who he seemed. When John found them, following the trail of vampire corpses leading to the prison, he was probably the angriest and proudest Dean had ever seen. No one told him about Cas, even though he’d killed most of the vampires. Even though he’d healed Sam and saved his life. They all just knew it was the kind of secret they shouldn’t let him know. Later, of course, they’d played down here, and then when he and Castiel couldn’t keep their hands off each other The door he’s looking for looms up out of the darkness, interrupting his train of thought. 

Dean turns the wheel, wincing when it makes a low creaking noise that sounds much louder in the tunnel. Peeking around shows a hallway devoid of people. The door lets out past all the entry guards, which was handy when two hormonal teenagers were looking for a place to be alone. 

Slipping through the hallways turns out to be easy, despite the ‘upgrades’ which appear to be new locks on the sturdy old jail doors. There are cameras, huge blocky things that look like they came out of a spy movie. The lights flicker as he goes and it doesn’t help the crawling sensation running under his skin. Every now and then, he swears that he hears footsteps that turn out not to be real. He’s so stressed that when he finds the guard station, he almost laughs out loud at how silly, how easy it is. The door is propped open, a lone guard who looks as ancient as the equipment he’s babysitting sits in front of a bank of monitors that switch views. He’s asleep at his post, snoring, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. An open lunch box with a half eaten sandwich sits nearby. There’s a chair for another guard, but none in evidence. 

Dean is silent, sneaking into the room and liberating the clipboard with a list of cell assignments, one eye on the monitors. They flip from view to view, showing no one in any of the cells until it gets to the one he’s assuming holds Castiel - he can’t see the man himself, but someone is moving in the darkness there, and the clipboard confirms it. Dean lifts the keys silently from the guard’s belt, fingers wrapped around the keyring to keep them from jingling. As he does, he notices his breath coming out in visible puffs, the air suddenly freezing. Ice begins to form on the monitor screens and the lights go ballistic. Whatever ghost is manifesting itself here, Dean has to get to Castiel quickly.

Though panic beats through his veins, he keeps to his training, quietly and quickly making his way through the stupid old arched stone dungeon. Despite the attempts to turn it into an actual prison, it still looked as though he was on a movie set. He feels like that little kid again, huddled with Sam and Cas in a freezing, unlocked cell, exhausted and scared. The only way open to him is the same then: Forward. By the time he finally gets to Castiel’s cell, about as deep in the place as they could put him, Dean is running, training be damned. He skids to a stop in front of the cell and if he wasn’t already breathless from running, it would be stolen by what he sees in front of him now. 

Castiel stands in a pool of light, the rest of his cell dark and deep, arms crossed. Waiting. Dean is struck to the heart by the sight of him. His hair, his lips, the bright blue eyes that sparkle in the light just so - Castiel tilts his head to look at Dean, completely unsurprised to see him. 

They stare at one another for an eternity, the years passing between them as an unspoken conversation. Behind Cas, a form starts to flicker into existence, glowing white hot blue in the dark. As it does, Castiel drops to one knee with a slight sneer, never looking away from Dean.

“The King is dead. Long live the King,” he says. 

Coalescing in the cell is the ghost of his father. His eyes are burning and he’s  _ glowing _ , completing the surrealness of the night. Ghosts don’t glow, not as a rule, and it’s so weird that it snaps him out of his reverie into action, fumbling with the stupidly outdated keyring, urgent to put himself between Castiel and the apparition. 

Castiel snorts. “Don’t bother. He’s been waiting for you. He arrives every night, thinking you would come here first. He hasn’t hurt me. He just waits. Scares the guards for fun, makes the equipment short out. No one can figure out whose ghost is haunting the old cells, as if it was a hard leap to make.”

Dean opens his mouth, but John interrupts, his voice echoing against the stone. “Son. Walk with me.”

The ghost flickers out, reappearing further down the hallway. Passing Castiel the keys through ridiculously wide bars, Dean follows, his heart hammering. They walk, lights sputtering and going black as they pass by. He is lost in utter blackness, broken only by the glow coming from his father’s spirit. The old stone walls seem to press in on him, centuries of despair and loss made manifest.

Dean stops moving. “No, I’m not moving any more. Dad, what the hell?”

John fades out, then reappears inches from Dean’s face. “Shhh, listen. Listen,” he whispers.“Oh, son, I am so sorry. I’ve been such a fool.  _ A fool, _ to waste a son’s love! Only, hear me, make it right, and I will be able to move on from this unending torture.”

“I don’t understand, did… did they  _ bury you?  _ How are you still here?”

A low wail echoes through the hall, raising all the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. His skin crawls at the look on the apparition’s face. It mimics the rage he had in life; a rage far too often focused on his son. He should run, but he’s paralyzed with fear. 

Enraged, John grabs him and lifts him against the wall, booming, “ _ Pay attention, boy!  _ I was murdered!  _ Murdered,  _ ** _me_ ** _ , the rightful king.  _ And now another takes my place in my marriage bed, in my home, on the throne.”

Dean opens his mouth to answer, struggling against the force pinning him. The King leans close, the smell of rotten flesh filling Dean’s nostrils, making him gag.

“ _ Silence. _ Morning comes too soon and I have much to tell you. You never returned. Oh how I missed you, my son. If you had stayed, I would be alive tonight.” 

Dean can’t help the bark of laughter, unwise though it is. “Oh god, fuck you. I didn’t kill you, you pushed me away.” 

John’s eyes narrow. “You fled. You betrayed me, and then Mary…” He groans and flickers out of existence for a moment, dropping Dean like a stone.

“C’mon Dad!” Dean shouts at thin, black air. “You can’t be telling me that  _ Mom _ murdered…?”

The ghost flickers in and out, whispering, “No… no, but it was for her love that I died. Her love and love of my throne. She and someone I considered close enough to be my brother.” 

“You mean Ketch.”

_ “The same!” _ His power in his voice shakes the stone itself, rattling Dean’s teeth. “ _ He stabbed me in the back and took my life. Now he has taken my wife, my throne, and I blame you - ungrateful, traitorous, degenerate son!” _

John’s eyes burn in the darkness as he reaches into Dean’s chest, squeezing. Dean flails backwards against the wall, screaming in pain. He’s going to die, he’s dying, it hurts so much-

“No.” Castiel’s voice is quiet and solid in the dark. He stands behind the King, fury etched into every line of his face. He reaches around to seize John’s forehead and Dean has the presence of mind to close his eyes just as the light comes, blinding and pure.

The release of pain is so sudden that he collapses with it, sliding down the wall. Castiel crouches next to him. The lights here weakly come to life, leaving everything in a dim glow.

“My apologies, your Highness,” Castiel says in his best detached and formal tone, “for discorporating your father. I suspected he meant you harm.”

Dean blinks at him. “Cas. What… what the fuck.”

Cracking a smile, Castiel cups Dean’s cheek in his hand. “Did you seriously come here for me? You know you’re a tool, right?”

Dean grins savagely, turning his face so he can kiss Castiel’s hand. “I love you too.”

A shadow passes over Cas’ eyes. He pulls back to stand, arms tightly crossed, leaving Dean to haul himself unsteadily to his feet unaided. 

“In all honesty, I am sorry about your father,” he says faintly.

Dean closes his eyes against the grief. “No, it was needed. He’d never have wanted to end up like that. Is he… was he. Was that the truth?”

“Perhaps. I had not been in court for a long time when it happened. Gabriel, though, is happy to gossip. Her Majesty and Mr. Ketch weren’t very subtle about the affair, but John pulled him even tighter instead of firing him or banishing him from court. They were inseparable until they went to Wallachstein to hunt werewolves. He didn’t come back alive.” 

“There really are an unprecedented amount of werewolves out there, you know.” 

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “There is an unprecedented amount of every creature, to be honest. The wolves around my home are no more numerous than any other place. The harmonious accord between your father’s hunters and the Men of Letters has been shifted. Nothing is getting done.”

Dean scrubs his hands over his face. “What was that Dad said about taking his throne?”

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d get there. Ketch and your mother were married yesterday. I suspect it’s why I’m in this cell - to keep me from contacting you so you couldn’t come home and take your rightful place. There has been so much unrest and when they announced their intent, there were nearly riots. I don’t know what they have planned, but the country is leaderless, and has been for months.”

Anger courses through him. His father dead only two months and his mother - What the actual fuck? Why isn’t any of this making sense? He clenches his fists a few times and tries to breathe. 

“I am going to kill that smug asshole,” he manages through his grinding teeth. “And I don’t get it, that’s not how succession works.”

Castiel just watches him and it makes him angrier. After everything and he’s still standing all the way over there with that stupid impassive look on his face. He just wants to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both, possibly. A smile lurks along the edges of Castiel’s lips and he shifts his body subtly. Taunting him. He could always read Dean like a book.

“And you, what? Did you see him kill my father? They’re hunting outside your home. Were you there? They had to at least stop in. Did you help him?”

Cas simply shrugs, as if he couldn’t care less. Dean takes a step forward, urged on by the indifferent eyebrow and mocking smile. 

“No, you didn’t help, but you didn’t stop him either, did you?”

“Well, your  _ Highness _ , it’s not like he had his favorite son to watch his back, was it?”

Dean launches himself at Cas, swinging at his face. Cas sidesteps, skipping backwards with a laugh. “Too long spent away,  _ Prince _ , you’ve forgotten how to fight.” 

He gets too close and Cas punches him in the face, light and fast, jeering at him. The rage simmering under his skin boils out of him as he tries in earnest to kill Castiel. They fight across the hallway, punching and kicking until Dean knocks him off his feet, and for a heady, drunken moment, he has his hands locked around Cas’ throat. Then somehow he finds himself on his stomach with his arm wrenched painfully backwards, Castiel pressing one knee into the small of his back.

The pain lances through the fog and he comes to himself, calling out Cas’ name. “Enough, enough, fuck,  _ fuck, okay, stop. _ ”

Cas hesitates. “Are you done?” 

Dean groans. “Yes, please, I’m done. Stop, I give.” 

He lets go of the arm and gets off Dean, retreating a little. His nose is bloody, and there will be a fantastic bruise on his cheek, but his eyes are bright and sharp. Dean flops over onto his back and pants a little. 

“Fuck, Cas, you’ve been training? You were always amazing, but this is something else.”

“With your brother, as it happens.”

He squashes a surge of jealousy. “There’s too much information in my head now, maybe you can explain that later? Cas, can we get the hell out of here? Maybe go back to your place, hide out for a while?”

Cas offers a hand this time and Dean takes it, getting himself to his feet, wincing at the twinge in his shoulder. “If that’s what you want, but they’ll come for me faster than you’d like.”

What he wants. He isn’t sure what that is, but he’s fucked if it’s fighting Castiel in this damn dungeon. They make their way down the hallway, but he isn’t really that surprised to see a bunch of Ketch’s men at the end of it, looking nervous. Mick, Ketch’s second in command, is with them, but he looks like he knows he’s on shaky ground. They  _ have _ weapons, but seem unsure if they should train them on Dean. Point in his favor then. He’s still the Prince to these folks. He’s still making up his mind about whether to order them to stand aside or just start throwing punches when he feels Castiel’s hand on his shoulder, and it feels so nice that he nearly misses the whisper.

“Don’t. If you fight with them, you just legitimize him.” Castiel’s breath is hot on his ear. Dean shivers. 

“The King wants a word with you, your Highness. Just you. This… thing… can go back in its cell,” Mick says. 

Dean brings himself up to full height, interposing himself between Cas and the men. “No, Mick. The King is dead. I will go see my mother, the Queen, and the  _ Duke _ ?  _ He _ will come with me.”

The men with Mick look at each other uneasily. Mick purses his lips, but seems unwilling to push it. They head out of the dungeon, preceded by Cas and Dean.


	6. More Matter, Less Art

Mick takes them out and around the palace. Outside the gates, he can hear the people in the capital still celebrating the royal wedding, but even from here the merriment sounds forced and muted. Tomorrow will be the third day of celebration, and then the question of what to do about the throne will have to be answered, at least in public. As they proceed into the palace, the servants they pass whisper together and scuttle away to spread the news. Dean can’t help but notice the angry, violent looks that Mick and the Royal Guard get. He puzzles over it as they move past. Just as they reach the stairs, he lets out a loud laugh, startling Mick. Goddamn, the servants think he’s been imprisoned for two months! He’s being escorted with the man famously outed as his lover by armed guards. Ketch has more of a problem on his hands than he could imagine, and Dean is fairly sure that he doesn’t know about it. 

They meet in his father’s study. Mary is already there, wearing the plush pink robe Dean gave her for her birthday when he was in single digits. He’s overwhelmed by the sense memory of it, the smell and soft texture when she’d hold him close, whispering that everything would be okay. Her hair is wild, pulled back in an attempt to look less debauched, maybe. It doesn’t help. 

Dean sneers. “Wasted exactly zero time, I see, Mom.” 

She draws herself up stiffly, looking wounded. “After all this time, this is how you greet me?”

Castiel’s hand lands on Dean’s shoulder in warning half a second before Ketch comes in. He’s ruffled as well, wearing a stupid red velvet dressing gown. He looks... punchable.

Ketch smiles. “Ah, the prodigal son, come to break the traitor out of jail.”

He starts forward, but Cas’ hand squeezes, and he stops. Ketch laughs. “Still held in thrall by this creature, I see.” 

Through clenched jaw, Dean says, “That’s a Duke you are referring to,  _ Mister  _ Ketch.” 

Ketch slips a proprietary arm around Mary, that fucking smile still on his face. “Oh no, I think what you mean is ‘Father’.”

Mary leans into Ketch. “Dean, sweetheart, I know it’s a lot, but just try to calm down.”

“Calm down? Dad’s dead, and what, you think  _ Cas  _ did it? Plus, you couldn’t even wait until his corpse was cold before getting married to this fucking tool?”

Ketch’s lip twists into a sneer, but Mary just smiles tiredly, gliding over to Dean and kissing his cheek. 

“You’re upset and it’s late. Everything has been so confusing, sweetheart. It happened right outside his home, and honestly, there was a lot of tension there, what with…” She gestures between Cas and Dean vaguely. “Anyway, don’t worry about any of this. We’re getting your room made up right now, and then we can talk in the morning. When everyone isn’t so tired, and, well… overwrought.”

“And what about Castiel?”

Her smile is brittle as she goes back to Ketch’s side. “His Grace is welcome, of course, as our guest. We apologize for the assumptions we made. He can take the Rose Room. But, sweetheart, do try to come to terms with this. This isn’t the end of the world. Your father is dead, and it’s sad, of course it is. I loved him dearly and I will miss him. But his father died, as his father before him. It’s how things are, especially for someone so brave. He always fought alongside his own men, it was going to happen eventually.”

Ketch pulls her in for a kiss with a smile that broadens when Castiel’s firm hand stops Dean from murder. “Goodnight,  _ son, _ ” he says, oozing sincerity and fatherly concern, “try to get some sleep. We know it’s been a hard day for you and there’s so much to  _ do _ tomorrow.” 

They’re gone, taking the guards with them, before Dean can really wrap his head around any of that. Ketch’s quiet snicker lingers longer than his mother’s perfume and he stays until it’s quiet here in the study. Cas watches him carefully. 

“It’s a coup.” Dean feels like he’s running on a low battery, or wading through the bottom of a dim lake. “It’s a fucking coup. He’s - he’s taking over everything.” 

“Do you care?” Sam says from the doorway, half cloaked in a shadow. 

Dean feels an overwhelming sense of relief and grins tightly. “Sammy, oh God, it’s good to see you.” 

Sam’s taller now and thin like a blade, his muscles compact and practical, not showy. The long locks are still there, held back in a loose bun on the back of his head. He closes the door behind him, catching his brother as he vaults himself into a tight embrace. When he pulls back, his eyes are guarded.

“Why are you back here, Dean?” 

“Well, I got this weird letter. I guess you didn’t think I’d come if you needed me, huh?”

Cas clears his throat. “I’ve been very generously offered a room, so I’m going to…” 

Sam says, “I think that’s best-” 

“No,” Dean says firmly. “No, Cas, stay. I don’t trust Ketch. They had you in a cell not even an hour ago.” 

Cas drops his eyes. “As your Highness wishes, but if I may - he would not seek to piss you off so soon. He has a plan and your arrival put a wrench into it. If he wants to complete the plan, he needs to be as friendly as he can. I will be safe.” 

“Yes, alright. But go to my room, not the Rose Room. That room locks from the outside. You can call it a command, if you want, Wallachstein.” 

Cas’ lips quirk. He executes an elegant and formal bow, heading for the door. Sam opens it for him, eyes narrowed, and Cas bows to him as well before leaving. 

Sam closes the door and locks it with a click, eyeing Dean. “I thought you were done with him.” 

Jealousy rears its head again, but he pushes it down. “No. We’d be in America right now if it wasn’t for Dad.”

“He made the right call, Dean. Cas isn’t to be trusted.”

Dean laughs. “Oh, fuck, come on. You cannot be serious right now. Sam! Cas is barely a quarter angel, and you trusted him fine before  _ Mick _ uncovered his lineage in some dusty Men of Letters book and made what we already knew public. He’s been nothing but loyal.” 

Sam scowls. “He killed Dad. And he’s a dick.”

Dean closes the distance and claps Sam on the shoulder. “The dick part I’ll give you, but you don’t think he did it, and I know that because he’s still alive. You wouldn’t have waited for a trial if you thought it even for a second. Which makes me wonder why Ketch is still breathing air.” 

“You think Ketch did it.” 

“I know Ketch did it, Sammy. Dad’s ghost was in the dungeon waiting for me.” 

Absently, Sam says, “It’s Sam. I know. I saw him, but he’d never talk to me. He said Ketch did it?”

Dean nods and turns away towards one of the bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines. “You saw him, eh? No reason to do that unless you were visiting Cas.” 

Dean pulls on a book, making the whole thing swing around in a circle, revealing a bar. He starts rummaging, pulling up a very dusty bottle and two glasses. Sitting in his father’s chair, he clunks them down. 

“Come and have a drink and tell me what’s been going on.” 

Sam comes away from the door and Dean can see how training has rubbed the rough edges off him. He moves with confidence, and if he didn’t have so many memories of Sam being young and goofy, he’d calculate him as a very dangerous man instead of a huge, dangerous nerd. He pours drinks while his brother sits at the chair across from him - the same chair they’d both sat in to receive a royal dressing down from their father at one time or another. Dean’s less comfortable where he is now, but he sticks it out, offering the glass. It’s important, where he’s sitting. Important to have Sam see him there, in their father’s place.

“Another reason I know that you trust Castiel is because I know for a fact that you’re training together. This... slick assassin look you have going on isn’t because you’ve been oh-so close with Ketch.”

Sam snorts into his drink. “Yes and no. The Men of Letters was already heading into the new ‘regime’ when you left, but Ketch hadn’t wormed his way into Dad’s utter confidence quite yet. He… he has a new plan, and I guess, I… I thought it was too much.” 

“What new plan?” 

“Look, you were gone! And Dad, he just went into overdrive. The Men of Letters got a foothold and they convinced him that the country’s troubles were because of blood purity.”

“What, you mean like Cas?”

Sam slams the empty glass down, sputtering. Dean smirks at him. He’d grabbed the strongest drink on purpose just to fuck with him, and Sam glares. He powers through it, coughing while he talks. It undermines the vibe he had coming in and Dean’s glad for the glimpse of  _ his  _ Sammy underneath everything.

“Yes. Like C-Cas. They had some plan, but Dad wouldn’t ever sh-share it, and then everything went to shit.” 

Dean, drink untouched, can feel the pit of his stomach falling. “Ketch. Does he know about you?”

“You mean my, uh, dreams?”

“Your  _ visions _ , yes,” Dean growls. “Does he  _ know? _ ”

Sam stands, restlessly, not saying anything for a long time, just pacing. Dean lets him until it gets to be too much. “Your brain is working overtime, I can smell it frying all the way over here. Look, you’re mad at me, and I guess I get that, but  _ you sent for me. _ What was the point if you didn’t think anything was wrong?” 

He makes a face. “I had dreams. For months, I had them, but they were confusing. Violent. I had to talk to someone, and you weren’t here.” 

“So you told  _ Ketch _ ?!” 

“I didn’t, I swear. I talked to Dad and  _ he _ went to Ketch for a second opinion on what they might mean. Dad always thought my visions were an attribute that was useful, but after they talked about it, Dad pulled away and they got worse. I stopped sleeping. Then he was dead. I just think, if I hadn’t told him...”

“Wait, do you think this is your fault? Sammy, c’mon.”

Sam looks away. “Look, it’s late. We can talk about it tomorrow. You have some, uh, catching up to do. I guess.” 

He doesn’t miss the face Sam pulls and a load of pressure eases up under his skin. They aren’t together. He’s not interested in Cas. Dean can’t help the slow grin that creeps over his face and it makes Sam turn a bright red.

“Yeah, alright, Sammy. Just don’t barge in. That didn’t go well for you last time.”

“Ugh, stop!”

“Ha! I mean, you did it so many times I was sure you were trying to sneak a peek at Cas.”

“Knock it off! How was I supposed to know you were fucking in a  _ barn _ of all things. And the river? I mean, haven’t you heard of a bed?” 

Laughing, Dean gets up to give him a bear hug. This time, Sam returns it wholeheartedly. Damn, it’s good to have a solid piece of ground under his feet again. 

Sam grabs his arm as he’s on the way out. “I wish you wouldn’t, though. You’ve been gone for a long time. Leave it alone. Cas isn’t the same.” 

Dean shakes him off. “Now you’re overstepping.”

Dean pushes by him with a clap on the shoulder, ignoring the pensive look on his brother’s face.


	7. Doubt Truth To Be A Liar

Being back in his old room is not great. His mother had never had the room re-decorated or changed, just cleaned. Everything he used to own as a teenager is still here - the guitar on its stand, the AC/DC posters in the expensive frames his parents insisted on. His desk and the drafting table. Even the overfull bookshelves, complete with stupid mementos - a snowglobe, interesting rocks, pictures Sam had taken as a kid… all still here.

It makes him feel small. With only one lamp on, the room is shadowy and still, like a captured moment in time. Castiel is lying on the bed, barefoot, legs crossed at the ankle. His eyes are shut, but Dean can see he’s not asleep. 

“How did that go?” His voice is smooth and sweet in the dark. 

Dean sheds his coat and boots, but doesn’t remove his shoulder holster, sitting down beside him. “I don’t know. Sam is distrustful of everyone, but I think he wants Ketch out. Everything here is so fucked up. Did you know about some weird purity thing in the Men of Letters?”

Castiel sits up in a smooth motion, his hands sliding up Dean’s arms. “Is that what you want to talk about, my prince?”

Dean groans, shutting his eyes. Castiel smells fantastic, even after having been in the dungeon for so long. Clever fingers pluck at the shoulder holster, unsnapping it and guiding it off. They tease the back of his neck, playing with the short-cropped hair there. There’s a yawning pit filled with pain just opening up inside Dean, and he can’t figure out what to say next. All he can do is whisper Castiel’s name, softly. Brokenly.

Castiel delicately licks his earlobe, whispering, “I missed you, your Highness. When I was forced to come home, and you did not follow...”

“Cas, I know, I’m so sor-” 

“Shhhhh. Do you know what I dreamed about every night for the first month? The first thirty days we were apart, those days you  _ left me behind?” _

“N...n...n…” 

His outer shirt is stripped off, and then the one under it, leaving Dean shivering in just a t-shirt. The room is warm, but Castiel’s hands are like moon-lit ice, cooling him down even while his pulse kicks into overdrive. 

“I remembered the day I gave you that beautiful diamond. My mother’s diamond. The one you are still wearing, I see. We climbed out to the fields behind the University and I took you under the full moon. It wouldn’t have been safe here, but in America, we could do what we wanted.” 

Castiel slips Dean’s shirt off, covering his shoulders and the hollow of his neck with small kisses. Breath ghosts along pebbled skin. “And we did. You were beautiful, naked in the light. You were free, we were free together, and you remember the promise you made?”

Tears fall down Dean’s cheeks. Castiel wipes one off delicately and plays with the moisture between two fingers. “You promised me your life. I went to my knees and begged you to marry me. You took my ring, my prince. You took it, and gave me a promise.” 

He toys with Dean’s hand, moving the ring back and forth. “You still wear it. So I presume that your promise still holds. We have much to discuss, but tonight...” 

Castiel leans in and kisses Dean, insistent and hot, pushing him backwards onto the bed. Crying out with relief and a hundred other emotions tangled together, Dean pulls him close. He’s drowning for more, clawing and pulling at Castiel’s clothing. 

“Oh god, Cas, forgive me, you-” 

“No, but allow me to show you how much I still love you.” 

Desire pounding through his veins, his mind spinning on the high of Castiel’s smell, his presence, the sheer  _ reality _ of him, Dean does. 

* * *

“Why did you stay?”

They’re quiet now, tangled in the nude together on top of Dean’s plush bedspread. He’s been living entirely on his own for years now, and the lavishness of it is a shock, even if he does love the feel of it on his naked skin. His head is nestled against the comforting solidity of Cas’ chest, the sound of his heartbeat welcome and real. His body feels sated and relaxed, unable to do anything like that again until tomorrow, but he knows that Cas would be ready to go in an instant. He doesn’t know if it’s the angel heritage, but his refractory time has always been a matter of minutes, his need only intensified with each orgasm. Dean secretly hopes that he’ll be pushed down on the bed and taken again - being used for Castiel’s pleasure was one of his biggest vices. Better than drinking, any drug, any high ever.

Castiel’s fingers trace absently over skin. “You know why. After I finished University with you, your father made sure my request for an extended visa was denied, and I did not have the luck to have an American mother. Plus, I have a duty to the Duchy. Wallachstein needed me, even if you didn’t.”

“Cas, I’m -”

“No, I can’t hear an apology, it will break me.” 

Dean has no answer for that, so he stays quiet, listening to Castiel control his breathing. Shame, need, and unhappiness war with each other. 

Cas, face impassive, rolls over on his side so he can look Dean in the face. “You need to decide what you want. Ketch is poised to take over the country, succession be damned. You should kill him.” 

Dean jerks. “Kill - what? No! That’s not a good idea, Cas. Can we not talk about this? My mother is - my father - it’s all too much.” 

The idea, though, worms its way under his skin. His father would want him to do it himself. He’d want Dean to hunt him like a feral vampire and cut him down. But he’s not a murderer, and his mother - God, what would she think?

Castiel trails his fingers down over Dean’s skin, looking him in the eyes, unblinking, focused. “You’re too scattered. Uncertain and afraid. Let’s see if I can’t get you out of your head, Prince.” 

“God, stop, call me by my name!”

Cas, faster than Dean can track, is on top of him, his elegant hand around his throat, squeezing lightly, a promise of violence. Cock hard and pressing against Dean’s belly, he hisses, “No. Beg me. Prove you deserve it. ” 

“Castiel, please-”

Castiel snarls at that, flipping Dean over onto his stomach. “No,” Cas says savagely, “I mean to make you  _ beg me. _ ” 

Roughly nudging Dean’s legs apart, he wastes no time, pushing into his sore, used ass. It hurts more than he imagined it would. He wants - he needs more time to get used to it, but Cas ignores that, fucking him slow and deep, holding him in place with one hand firmly wrapped under and around his throat. 

Dean makes a small anguished noise, half a sob, which makes Cas laugh. “Fuck, you are as sweet in your misery as I remember, my prince. Does it hurt?”

All he can manage to do is nod. There’s just so much  _ sensation _ , pain and need, and that dark part of his being that revels in Cas hurting him. He’s still taking him slowly, each thrust calculated to make Dean cry out until he’s simply a mess of tears incapable of making a coherent word. 

When all he can do is weep, Castiel makes this small pitying noise with his tongue, and touches him on the forehead. Lust courses through him, suddenly hard and heavy, pressed against the soft velvety blanket under him. All the pain makes pleasure, lost inside Castiel’s power over him, he bucks, whimpering. It’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough.

“Want more, Prince?” Castiel hisses in his ear. 

Dean grabs blindly at Castiel’s hand still on his throat and squeezes, provoking a dark laugh. “Your wish is my command, but if you want me to call you by your name, you have to beg. Better do it sweetly, before the air runs out.” 

He starts slowly squeezing, cutting off Dean’s air in tiny bits. Dean begs Castiel to forgive him, receiving nothing but an uptick in Castiel’s thrusts as he gets closer. He can’t breathe, and he needs it, Castiel has to forgive him, he  _ has to _ . There’s not enough air, and he needs more time, so he starts to fight it, clawing at the hand that might as well be made of stone. Spots dance in front of his eyes. He loses his mind with pleasure, he’s so close, fuck, he’d do anything if Castiel would just….

Everything is so dark, he can’t see, he whispers it again, using the last of his precious air in with what feels like his very last breath on this earth. “ _ Please, I’ll give you anything you want, please, my angel... _ ”

Castiel kisses him, a benediction, and Dean’s orgasm cuts through him like a knife.


	8. Hear Me, Old Friend?

In the morning, Dean is alone except for Castiel’s scent and a note that urges him to think carefully about his position. Typical Cas. He decides to skip an awkward breakfast with his mother and seeks some clarity in the portrait room. 

As usual, no one is there. He’s pretty sure that no one but servants come here, and then only to keep dust from getting too thick on the paintings. His ancestors stare down at him disapprovingly. He walks up and down the hallway, listening to the echoing sounds of his own footsteps. This was the only place he’d ever found clarity of thought when he was a kid, the silence and company of the long, dusty dead comforting somehow. Today though, he is too fucked up to think properly. What he needs is someone not invested in this crap at all. 

He digs his phone out, distantly glad to be using his own, happy to shed the pink sparkly monstrosity. Charlie answers immediately with a chirpy, “Your worshipfulness!”

Dean laughs, “Yeah, yeah, okay. How you doin, Red?”

She snorts. “I’m still no better at Settlers of Catan than I was last week, Winchester. You know, when everything made sense, and you could show up for game night.” 

“I’m sorry, Charlie. If you’re not too mad at me, I could use some perspective?”

“I’m not mad at all, just worried. Astral projection or on the phone?”

“I’m actually alone, so the former would be a lot better.” 

“Right, well, you know what to do. And give it a second, you’re halfway across the world.” 

Dean takes his watch off and opens the back, revealing a small pentagram worked into a digital circuit. Introducing Rowena and Charlie had been a stroke of genius. He clicks a switch, readying the circuit for power, and then they start chanting together. When her voice cuts off, he continues, ending the spell as the translucent form of his best friend coalesces out of the watch. 

“I am never going to get used to how much like a genie that looks.” 

Charlie grins. Despite being slightly shimmery, she looks so real. He aches for a hug.

“So, you get a letter that just says ‘Poughkeepsie’, and you hare off home where they probably want to kill you or at least lock you up, without a real explanation. You owe me, Winchester. What in the hell is going on.” 

Dean puts the watch in his pocket to keep her soul safe. Until the spell ends, she’s vulnerable. He gestures. “Walk with me?”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “I go where you carry me.” 

Dean walks up the hallway which seems to go on forever, Charlie floating, tethered to the watch like a balloon. “So, as you know, my father, John Winchester, was the King of Mordavia. He met my mother in America. She grew up in Kansas, but her father was important, at least in the hunting community. Dad was touring the states, trying to figure out how they were so relatively free of supernatural crap, especially given the size of it.” 

Dean stops at a portrait of an unsmiling bald man. “Grandpa Campbell, Mom’s dad. He was one of the most influential hunters in the states, but an amateur. He taught my father a lot of tricks. The royal family has been hunting for centuries, but the ingenuity of the Americans took him by surprise.” 

Charlie looks up at the picture. “He is a creepy guy. No offense.” 

“None taken. I’ve always thought he was creepy, especially when he was alive.”

“What do you mean by amateur? No one gets paid to do this crap.”

Dean makes a so-so gesture. “See, our country, like most of Europe, is overrun with monsters. But we happen to sit on some very interesting holy relics and sites. The monarchy here has been training its people to combat monsters for centuries.

“So my paternal grandfather, Henry, he started a group called The Men of Letters. They have chapters in every country now. He and dad started one in America too, though it’s defunct now.” He pauses. “Say, that’s a thought for another day. There’s gotta be one of their safehouses somewhere in the states still. It could be useful.” 

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “I’ll remind you later. What do they do, anyway?”

“They collate lore, come up with cool new ways to fight monsters. We set up a place to train government agents of all kinds to spot them. Every now and then one of them gets a bright idea to infiltrate human governments. It’s most of what we as a country do for cash. It’s more lucrative than you might think. Plus, we export a lot of very tasty wine.”

She looks at him. “Wine.” 

“Look, we have a lot of monks with time on their hands.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “I know you’re not asking me to come all the way over here to talk about wineries staffed by monks. So I don’t get it. Why do assholes like us even do this job then?”

Dean moves down the hallway, the dusty faces of his ancestors glaring at him as he goes. “Because hunters everywhere else are usually created by contact with something supernatural that fucked up their lives. If you hadn’t noticed, every single one we’ve met has been a little… uh,  _ focused _ .” 

She snorts. “You’re talking about me, too, you know. And by ‘focused’, you mean obsessed.”

He grins, shrugging. “You said it, not me.”

They stop in front of the official portrait of John. He’s huge, domineering. Dean loves him still, just as much as he hates him. 

“So, you left because you loved a boy and they hated it, you’ve told me that much. Why are you back?”

Dean absently touches the bruised ring around his throat. “I was kicked out of the country, actually. Yes, it was because Castiel is a man, but more the fact that Cas has ‘tainted’ blood. He’s part angel and it was a very tightly held secret until he was exposed. My father tolerated it until the Men of Letters talked him into believing that he was less of a person because of it. Life became unbearable after that, but thankfully Castiel and I went to University in America for a long, blissful time. When Dad found out we were going to get married... he forced Castiel back home and I was too much of a coward to fight my exile.” 

“Fuck, Winchester, that’s cold.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. Right now, though, my father is dead and I have to figure out if I want to care about it enough to take my throne back, or if I just want to come back to the States.” 

“Ugh,” Charlie says. Dean can’t agree more.


	9. Smile, And Be A Villain

When Charlie finally has to go, Dean heads into the orchard in the back gardens. He’s hungry, he doesn’t want to talk to his family, and the prospect of picking an apple right from the tree sounds perfect. Charlie hadn’t had much insight to give him, but seeing a solid, friendly face was good. He misses everyone in America. A travelling theater troupe fighting monsters was a great premise for something like a tv show, but it was an even better reality in which to live. He felt free every day of his life, and even more than that, Charlie always firmly insisted that they make sure whatever they were hunting wasn’t redeemable before they did anything final. It felt good, even if he missed Castiel and his brother every single moment.

He still feels like a coward, even more so that he is a mere thought away from just getting on a plane and leaving forever.

The orchard’s quiet is pensive, the twisted trees heavy with apples. His footfalls are muffled on the soft grass. A mist starts rolling in, low to the ground. Every step drags him forward to the center of the orchard where the first tree planted here grows. It’s well over a century old, living far past the normal age of any apple tree. He looks up at it uneasily as he gets close. It towers over him, the trunk thick and scarred. Abruptly dizzy, Dean reaches out to steady himself on it, his mind filled with a memory he’s helpless to stop. 

_ His father screaming about Castiel, his father’s belt underscoring every word with a loud crack. It was bad enough that Castiel was male, but that he wasn’t entirely human… it had to stop. He was sullied, he should be ashamed of himself.  _ The scars on his back throb as if reliving every strike, each scream soaked along with his blood into the first tree, lashed to it by Ketch himself. 

The hairs on the back of his neck raise. He whirls, fists up, to see Ketch leaning against a different tree with a smirk, his eyes glittering with malice. “Hello, Son. Reliving good memories?”

“I’m not your son.” Dean puts his back to the first tree, ignoring the vibration he imagines he feels from it along his spine. His skin crawls. He wants to run. 

“But you are, Dean. Your mother and I were wed, not that long ago. You may have heard - or, wait. Did you? She tends to forget she even has an older son. In the end there, she seemed to have forgotten that she was married, too. I have to say, John had everything in the world, but he was so unable to hold onto it.” 

“Listen, you pretentious piece of crap-” 

Ketch steps forward into Dean’s space. “No, you listen. You never gave a shit about this country or your mother. You broke her heart when you refused to return, and I was, luckily, there to pick up the pieces. Pack up your abomination, you’ll find that the order blocking his visa will be suspended. Go back to the States. In a week, your mother will crown me King, and you will officially be free forever. The Men of Letters has a plan, and with my help as King here, no one will even have to hunt monsters anymore. Doesn't that sound like paradise?”

Dean narrows his eyes. “That’s not how this works, asshole. You’re British, you know that. If I don’t take the throne, Sam will.”

Ketch… well, he doesn't so much smile as lift the corners of his mouth in an unpleasant and bloodthirsty way. Every alarm bell his father ever drilled into his being is going off, and he finds himself on the balls of his feet, ready to fight.

“Sam won’t be a problem, Dean. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it. Here’s the bottom line,  _ Son. _ If you don’t leave, I will have the Duke arrested for treason again, and this time he’ll be executed for it. Go on. Take the offer. You don’t get to have Sam, too, but then, abandoning your family has been so easy in the past.” 

“What makes you think that I care what you do with the Duke? He means nothing to me. I never came back for him, if you don’t recall.” 

Ketch looks at him carefully. “That’s not what I’d been led to believe. And I saw you with him last night in the study. You still love him. You tried to rescue him, for God’s sake.”

Dean laughs, feeling triumphant at the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “I went to speak to the Duke to see for myself if he was guilty, and he wasn’t. Then we had a good fuck for old times sake, and it was fun, but that’s really it. You’re horrible at this spymaster crap, Ketch. Stick to your actual job.” 

Ketch pats him on the cheek. “My son, I am doing my actual job. Safeguarding humanity. Trust me, leave. It’s going to get worse here before it gets better.”

Dean knocks his hand away. “I’m not going anywhere. You murdered my father.” 

“You will, when you’ve had enough. And I don’t suggest that you try to repeat slander like that to your mother. She’s very touchy right now. I don’t think she’d believe you.” 

His cell phone beeps and he looks down. “Ah, that’s Mick. Sorry, Son, you know how it is. All work and no play. This has been lovely, we should do it again.” 

Dean watches him go, clenching and unclenching his fists.

* * *

He finds Castiel in the great hall, talking earnestly and quietly with Sam. Dean has been building himself up to this on the way, rage in his wake now like a cloak. He grabs Castiel with both hands and turns him, kissing him hard, harder than he’s ever kissed before. It’s almost an assault, angry hands clutching at the back of his shirt, holding him close while he bites and licks, and devours the very air from Castiel’s mouth. 

He pulls back, feverishly looking into those endless eyes. “Forget me,” he says, “go and find someone who can truly love you. Leave and forget me.”

Castiel looks at him, stunned for a minute, and slowly says, “That’s not very funny, Dean.” 

Dean laughs anyway, humourless, flat and cold. “Do I look like I’m joking,  _ Your Grace? _ Refer to me properly, or not at all. You’re not worth my time.”

Cas’ nostrils flare as he pulls himself up to his full height. “Excuse me,  _ Your Highness? _ What the fuck are you actually saying to me?”

Dean sneers. He’s seen this look of furious disdain so often on his father’s face that he can replicate it without really trying. He registers Sam’s sudden intake of breath and the half step backwards as proof that he’s done it right. “You heard me. You pretender to the throne, you actually think I could rule with you by my side? You think that night meant anything? You’re a plaything. I need a real consort, not a man, especially not one that isn’t even human.”

He leans close into Castiel’s space. “Go home, you abomination. You’re a perversion of nature, and you taint the very air with your presence.” 

Castiel says nothing, trembling and silent. The entire room has gone from loud daily bustling to absolute silence. Dean can feel dozens of eyes on him, and the collected held breath of everyone present. Tears collect in Castiel’s eyes, but he stands quietly for another long moment before slowly and gracefully bending to one knee. “As you command, Your Highness.” 

Then he sucker punches Dean in the gut. Dean goes down like a sack of potatoes, smacking his head on the floor. The room goes insane, but his mind is swimming and he can’t quite make out what’s happening. He registers Sam trying to hustle Cas through a crowd of people attempting to attack or arrest him, before everything goes black.


	10. What Dreams May Come

The baseball goes  _ thump _ against the ceiling, again and again. Outside, the yuletide fireworks are going off, casting sparkling shimmering light in his darkened room. He should be on the balcony, waving to people with his mom and dad. It’s his  _ right. _ It’s  _ Christmas. _ Sullenly, he throws the baseball, secretly gleeful when some plaster falls around his face onto the pillow. 

A sliver of light intrudes as the door opens a little, and then more as his mother comes through, spilling the brightness of the corridor into his sanctuary. He groans, shielding his eyes until she’s closed the door, making her way across the floor towards him. She’s in a ballgown, pink and silver. It whispers, silk on silk, as she comes and sits next to him. Queen Mary is gorgeous, gold hair piled artfully around the crown, long white gloves. Elegant and otherworldly. 

“Mom, you look beautiful.” 

She smiles, tiny wrinkles at the sides of her kind eyes. “Are you ready to come downstairs now, young man?” 

He sets his jaw. “Dad said I couldn’t see Cas any more.” 

She boops his nose lightly. “No, sweetheart, he said you should try to make more friends. He isn’t wrong, my love, you rarely talk to anyone but him. You’re ten, honey, you should have more friends.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Everyone else is boring. I don’t need anyone else.” 

She smiles the secret way adults do when they think you’re going to learn a lesson that they’ve long since worked through. Except he knows already what she’s thinking, and she’s so wrong. If only he could tell her. 

She brushes his hair out of his face. He grabs her hand, sitting up. “What’s going to happen to him now, mom?”

“I don’t understand, sweetie.”

“Well, his father…” 

“Ah. Well, he gets his father’s title. He’ll be Wallachstein now, and when he’s old enough, take on the duties that Charles had. Just like you will when  _ your _ father dies.”

“Ha, good one, Mom. Dad’s going to live forever.” 

She laughs, pulling him in for a hug. “Come downstairs now, my love. It’s Christmas and the Duke will be lonely. With his family being what it is, he’ll need all the friends he can get. Your father can’t object to that.” 

Dean drops the baseball on the bed and gets up, smoothing out the tuxedo. His lips still burn from the kiss, the first kiss he’d ever had, stolen right here in this room only moments before his father came in and nearly caught them. 

At the door, he puts his hand on his mother’s. “Mom? Will you love me forever? No matter what?”

She kisses the top of his head, her perfume light and flowery. He inhales the smell. “Yes, darling. No matter what. Nothing could ever change that.”


	11. Scourge And Minister

The headache when he wakes is nothing compared to the torture of Castiel’s smell on his pillow. He’s trying to sort through the mess going on in his head when his mother comes into his room, not knocking. She pauses there, getting a good look at him, her hair shot through with light from the hallway like a bright blonde halo.

“Well that was dramatic,” she muses, closing the door behind her. 

He shrugs a little, and then sits up, disliking the image of the crown prince sulking on his bed like a teenager. Come to think of it…

“Why didn’t you ever redecorate this room? I feel seventeen in here.” 

She sits next to him with a smile. “Well. I missed my boy. And I hoped you’d come home some day and redecorate it yourself.”

“I know, and I can’t say how sorry I am.” He rests his head on her shoulder. She puts her arm around him. 

“Mom, just you and I. What happened with you and Dad?”

“That’s none of your business, sweetheart.” Her voice is soft, her fingers mesmerizing in his hair. He could let it go, follow where she leads. Simply let her love him, accept what she’s done and move on. He could, but he’s done. His heart is broken open. Dean pulls away, stands unsteadily and faces her.

“Yes it is. It is, actually, my business.”

His mother eyes him. “No it isn't. Listen, I loved your father, but you know as well as I do how absolute he could be. In the end, he didn’t need me quite as much as he could have, and it broke us apart. So I… I’m not proud of it, but he didn’t even notice.”

“You had an affair. With Ketch. Believe me, Mom, he fucking noticed.” 

“Yes, I did, and why do you care? He loves me  _ and _ this country, which is more than your father did. There was room only for Mordavia in his heart. Come to that, it’s more than you ever have either. You couldn’t wait to leave, leave and never return! You come back when he’s dead so you can steal the power and take the throne as if Sam and I meant nothing to you.”

Dean laughs. “This is delusion. I left for  _ school, _ Mom! And when it was over, I was given a choice - come home and marry a woman I didn’t love, or never come home at all. I was exiled, Mother. I was exiled and Castiel was forced to return, just to twist the knife in deeper. I missed my home, I missed my family! And no matter how much I begged, you never lifted a finger to help me.”

Mary takes a deep breath. “I don't want to fight. Can’t you just be happy for us?” 

Dean turns away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Yes, okay, Mom. I am happy that you are happy, I guess. It’s just. Anyone but him. He’s a psychopath.”

She spins him around by the shoulder, eyes flashing. “You’re insulting your father.”

He smiles, all teeth. “Mother, you’re insulting my father.”

“Arthur is a great man, Dean, he’ll be a great leader, you have to see that.” 

“Tell me Mom. Tell me how the King died.

“Arthur and your father had a plan that was going to rid the world of most of the supernatural menace. Just enough to make people grateful, of course, not enough to make us have to rely on wineries to export. The Duke discovered the plan and decided to stop it while they were nearby in his woods. Obviously he didn’t expect Arthur to live.”

“Cas,” he says quietly, “did not kill my father.” 

Mary meets his eyes evenly. “Yes he did. Arthur told me himself, though we can never really prove it.” 

Dean grabs her by the shoulders, shaking her. “ _ Ketch killed him _ , you stupid woman. Ketch did it! And here you are, languishing in his bed like a whore. I saw Dad’s ghost myself!  _ What is wrong with you? _ ”

She slaps Dean across the face, snarling, “Lies, more lies! You’re unfit to rule, unfit to stand with this family.” 

He doesn’t let go. Honestly, he isn’t sure he won’t strike her if he lets go. “And what about your other son? What about Sam?”

She looks at him furiously. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

He breathes in and out, willing himself to calm down. “Sam has visions. Always has had them. When we were growing up, we agreed not to tell Dad because he would have gone ballistic, and you would’ve told Dad. I figured he’d told you anyways though, at some point.” 

The denial is out of her mouth almost instantly. “No. No, Sam is human. Otherwise, why would Arthur want him so close? You’re wrong, or there’s some other explanation.” 

Dean laughs right in her face. “Fuck, how are you so delusional? He’s going to murder Sam, he told me as much himself.” 

Mary pushes him away, walking away. “I am done with this nonsense. I’m going to crown him King, Dean. You can either step down willingly, or stay in custody until I’m done and then get exiled right back where you came from. He’s going to fix all the wrongs your father let sit and fester.”

“Surely it’s occurred to you that Castiel isn’t the only mixed-blood person in this country, after all the centuries of fighting and learning about monsters. Whatever this spell, or poison, or pogrom is, it’s going to kill your own subjects. These people are looking to you to protect them!”

Mary swallows, hard. “No, that’s… no. Our people are pure. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Dean, this will work.” 

Dean steps towards her, violence etched into his face. “You are insane and Ketch is insane. You will kill your own people.” 

She cringes away from him, shouting, “So what if we do?! This is a noble goal and there will be some sacrifices, there has to be! Nothing worthwhile is free!”

Helpless laughter bubbles up from inside him and he can’t hold it in. It frightens her more that the fist he has clenched, more than the knife easily within reach in his boot. He advances on her. Mary scrambles away from him until her legs hit the bed and she sits hard. Crouching next to her, he takes her hands, stroking them gently. 

“Mother, Mother, Mother. You’re right, of course. I can see it now, fuck, how deluded I’ve been.” He kisses the back of each one gently. 

Confused, she tries to relax, but can’t quite seem to do it, shaking. He smiles up into her face, knowing that he looks deranged. “I am so sorry. You’re my mother, you were here to pick up the pieces, and I arrived here, shouting and stomping like a child. I’m unfit. Honestly, it would be a relief to let you take over.”

Dean strokes her hand, rests his cheek against it. Her fingers are cold. “Allow me to give you a present, Mother. You and Arthur. Let me show him that I accept him as a stepfather, as my monarch. In The States, I was part of a theater group. Instead of crowning him tomorrow, let me arrange the usual celebrations, and at the end I will crown him myself. Please, I am so sorry.”

Mary is silent, looking at him, searching his face for some lie. The desperation to believe is written across her features starkly, and when she finally lets herself accept it, a brilliant smile breaks out across her face. She embraces him, tears of relief gathering in her eyes. She’s still shaking when she pulls back to cup his cheek in an affectionate hand.

“You were right to sever your ties with Wallachstein, sweetheart. It’s cleared your head at last. Don’t worry. Once Arthur is King, this country, this  _ world _ will be cleansed of his influence. Then we can find you a nice girl. I’d love grandchildren. There’s no question of you going back there, of course, you’re needed here, by Arthur’s side.” 

Dean’s hands ache to strangle the breath out of her. He smiles at her with a mouth that wants to spit, looks at his mother with eyes that see through a veil of black despair. His voice, though, is steady, and he blesses every acting teacher he’s ever had. 

“You know best. For now it might be best to leave him alone, I think. It would be better for him not to suspect this. Who knows what allies he has.” 

She nods, exhaustion gathering under her eyes. “Of course. I’ll give Arthur the good news.” 

He stays, crouching next to the bed as she gets up to leave. At the door she pauses, looking at him again. Her face is fond, loving, open. He aches for the child who once felt safe in her embrace. When she’s gone, he presses his face into the pillow that still holds Castiel’s scent and wishes he could smother himself with it. Instead, he screams and screams muffled rage into it until his throat is raw.


	12. Bounded In A Nutshell

Sam’s in his private workshop when Dean finds him, bent over a large, dusty book. Dean lets himself in silently, looking around and watching his brother work for a few minutes. 

“Dude. You have got to be more aware of your surroundings.” 

His brother jumps entertainingly. “Fuck, Dean, don’t do that!”

Dean chuckles as he pokes around the small space, lifting bottles and peering into vials. “I remember when this was your, like, private fort. Pillows and books and lame shit like that. This lab you made is cool. Does anyone know this is here?”

Sam makes a face. “No, not really. I built all of it myself. Hey, Dean, can you answer a question?”

Dean nods, sitting on a counter and swinging his feet. 

“What the actual fuck?”

He thinks about stalling, but then just shrugs. “Ketch said that he’d kill Cas.” 

That gets Sam’s undivided attention. “He said that? Those words?”

“Yeah, Sam. If I didn’t leave well enough alone, he’d arrest Cas on treason and execute him. I thought maybe if I severed connections, there wouldn’t be any hold. And, I mean… anyway.” 

“Anyway?” 

“Mom doesn’t believe me about Ketch, and she’s all for the genocide of everyone with any drop of monster blood in their DNA. It was like she’d been brainwashed or something.”

Sam shrugs. “I’m not gonna lie, I think you and Cas ending it is good, but maybe not like that. I don’t know what you said to Mom, but instead of arresting him, they sent him home.”

“It’s good? In what universe is it good?”

He laughs, “Oh Dean. It’s not a relationship, it’s sick.”

Dean bristles. “Because he’s not human or because he’s a man?”

“Neither, dumbass. He’s like, ninety eight percent human. Because it’s unhealthy. You think I didn’t notice anything? You thought that time I...” Sam shudders, “walked in on you fucking in the barn that was the only thing I ever saw? He’s creepy and controlling. You’d have done anything for him. And I mean anything.” 

He feels a phantom hand on his throat, swallows against the lump forming. “C’mon, what about you and that stupid movie actress? You can’t tell me that wasn’t horrible?”

Sam gets up and rummages through a tiny fridge, producing two beers. “It was, no doubt, but not at all like this. I mean, intense doesn’t even describe it. You were practically the same person that summer before you left for school.” 

Dean takes the beer, waving his hand dismissively at Sam. “Anyhow, it’s moot right now. Cas is off being furious and hurt, and he can’t get in the way. We need to figure out what we’re doing.” 

His brother leans one hip on the counter. “Well, what do you think we should be doing? If you stop Ketch, you have to take the throne. Are you prepared for that?” 

“No. I am not and you know it. I’d step down in favor of you.” 

“Woah, woah there buttercup. Not me. That’s not my gig, it’s yours. You’re plenty ready and you know it, in case all those classes on politics and economics slipped your mind. Dad made sure you knew how to do it. I’m meant to be your right hand man. And I’d do a great job of it, too. Ketch aside, I have a good relationship with the Men of Letters. Once he’s gone, I can whip it into something less… psychotic.”

Frustrated, he clenches his hand on the bottle. “What the fuck, Sam. How are you so damned calm? This guy killed Dad. We can’t just let him take everything!”

“Calm? Do I look calm, because I’m not. Dad’s ghost is wailing in the dark, crying for vengeance. Our mother’s betraying us and siding with a maniac who wants to murder me, Castiel, and probably half of our subjects. A mad man is trying to take our throne, our  _ birthright _ , our  _ country? _ ! I am not calm, Dean. I’m furious.

“But you have to fucking decide what you want, because we can’t do  _ anything _ until you do. Vengeance or slinking off into the night? Take your rightful place, or let it all go to shit.”

Dean covers his face, feeling dizzy. He whispers, “Cas.”

“Goddammit, Dean! Forget Cas for now. Make a decision. On your own.” 

His mind feels like it’s on fire, everything built up into an inferno. Slowly, though, he starts to piece himself back together. He should never have let his father chase him out. This would’ve never happened! He has to make it right. When he comes back to himself, Sam is watching him with that infuriatingly neutral expression, nursing his beer, waiting for him to make up his mind.

“Yes. I say yes. Let’s get my throne back, our country, our vengeance.”

Sam clinks beers with him. “So, what do we do?”

Dean says, “We throw a party. Mom wants to crown Ketch, and I convinced her that I wanted to prove my loyalty by throwing them a festival. The idea will appeal to Ketch, even if he doesn’t trust me. The three day festival is traditional, and the optics of doing it right are crucial, so it buys us time. At the end of it, I’ve offered to crown him king.” 

“Right on the heels of the festivals for the Royal Wedding. How is a party going to help us, like, at all?”

“No one wanted that, but for this one, you and I will be visibly by their side. We use the time to undermine them and plan. Then we kill him. Hopefully he’ll have so little support that we can do it without too much bloodshed. Then we get mom a psychiatrist, because,  _ damn _ .”

Sam laughs despite himself, taking a long drink from the bottle as he thinks through it. “Are you sure you want to outright kill him? Can you? A werewolf is one thing, but Ketch is a human. It would be straight up murder. Are you capable of that?”

Dean thinks about Ketch’s smile when he talked about Sam. Castiel in a cell for two months. His poor, tired, addled mother. “Yeah, I’m pretty damn sure I’m capable.” 

“Well then,” Sam puts down the beer, “where do we start?”


	13. Suit The Action To The Words

Dean spends weeks with Ketch and Mary, playing the dutiful son. They tour through the country, announcing the coronation, meeting with nobles. Gabriel receives them in Wallachstein. He glares daggers at Dean during the formal dinner while making excuses for his brother, who he says, is in bad health. It hurts to know how much pain Castiel is in, but he just smiles a shark’s smile and pretends not to care. Everywhere they go, Dean makes sure to watch the servants instead of the nobles, letting Sam take over most of the conversations. They look at Ketch with barely disguised animosity and at Mary with bewilderment. Almost all of them though, look at Dean with tenderness, sadness. He and Sam start talking where at least one servant can hear them, every stop they make, dropping hints about the cells in the dungeon, hoping that the gossip will spread that the prince is being coerced. It works better than he could have imagined. 

During the parade, the morning before the festival begins, he rides with his mother and stepfather in an open topped limo, waving, smiling. Pretending. And if the crowds chant his name… if he waves and kisses babies and takes selfies with people pressed against the barricades - if they assume he’s taking his throne at last, he doesn’t correct them. Sam tells him quietly that every night buildings are plastered with unauthorized posters of Dean photoshopped wearing a crown, posters that are ripped down by the Royal Guard every morning. 

The first day of the festival is the hardest. Fireworks just make his ears ache, and the sounds of laughter and drunken revelry leave him cold. For the first time in ages, he has time to himself, and all he can do is think about the pain etched into Castiel’s face. Dean pretends to have a headache and locks himself in his father’s study, drinks it dry. But nothing can erase the cold fury of those eyes and the ghostly feeling of elegant fingers wrapped around his neck.

Charlie and the rest of the troupe arrive on the second day of the festival. Dean’s commandeered the royal theater, attendance only by invitation. The performance, though, will be broadcast live so that the rest of the country can see it. She’s tired, but happy to see him, giving him a crushing hug. 

“Goddamit, Winchester, you’ve gotten yourself in a pile of shit, haven’t you?”

Kevin gives him a hug, too. “All of this is stupidly gothic, Dean. Are you sure you want to stay here?”

Garth, unloading their cases from the truck, snickers. “Can’t run from your destiny, Kev. Help me with this.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Guys, could we just, not?”

Glaring at the three of them, Charlie pulls Dean aside. “First of all, are you okay?”

Dean just shakes his head curtly. “No. Please, I don’t want to talk about it.” 

She nods, but her gaze is still disconcertingly direct. “So, I got your parameters, and I think we’ve whipped up a good script. But are you sure this is safe?” 

“No, it isn’t. In fact, get everyone together, we should talk about that.” 

He watches Charlie assemble them. They’re a good team, dedicated to their craft as well as hunting. It’s been a strange few years, but he wouldn’t have traded it for anything. They all sit on the stage facing him, waiting.

“Listen, guys. We’ve been through some shit. The werewolf cult in Missouri, the Elvis impersonators, serial killing shapeshifters. Beckett... dinner theater. This thing I’m asking you to do is a direct stab at the heart of someone who is very, very dangerous. 

“He’s going to do a lot of awful things, and probably kill a lot of good supernatural creatures along with the bad. Remember the librarian witches and that guy in San Francisco?” 

In the back Becky calls out, “And my gramma!”

Dean points, nods. “Yes, her too. This play, if you do it right, will get him off his guard. It’ll make his supporters nervous. It might mean, that when it's time to strike, he’ll be less defended.” 

Charlie stands up. “So, I know the script needs work, but don’t ham it up.”

Dean nods, slinging his arm around her for a second. “She’s right. It’s a ridiculous play, but it mirrors life so well right now that if it looks like you’re laughing at him, we can’t claim innocence. So do your best, guys. And be on your toes. It would be really bad optics right now for him to hurt visiting artists, but he will have some of you followed. Put every safety protocol we have into play. No one goes out alone.” 

Kevin raises his hand, and Dean smirks. “Yes, you there in the front.” 

“Charlie filled us all in on everything. When it’s time to take back your throne, can we help you?”

Dean wants to say no. With all his being, he wants to tell them to stay out of it, but he can’t. They’ve fought some weird shit by his side and there’s no taking that away from them now.

“Yeah,” he says softly, “I would be honored.”

He goes to collect himself outside, walking around the back of the building where it’s darker, lit only by the occasional light attached to the building. He wishes that he had a cigarette, even though he hasn’t smoked in a long time. He could really use it to steady his nerves.

“What are you doing, Dean?” 

His voice is so much a part of the darkness that Dean thinks for a half second that he’s imagining Castiel’s presence again. Or dreaming it. But, no, there he is, concealed in the shadow of the building. 

“I’m… talking to some actors?”

He stalks forward, and Dean has to stop himself from backing away. 

“No. What are you  _ doing _ ? You use me and discard me, and now you’re stumping for the asshole who is going to murder me. You’re throwing him a party! Do you hate me that much?”

“I don’t -” His voice breaks, and he silently curses himself. “I don’t think about you at all.”

Cas is in his face, now. He smells good. So very good. It’s mesmerizing and he imagines now that he knows how a mouse feels in a snake’s grasp. “You’re lying to me. Or you were lying to me then. Do you even know how to tell the truth anymore, your Highness?”

“You should go.” Castiel has to go. He  _ has to _ , or Dean will lose his focus. He’ll fuck up and then everyone he loves will die.

Cas pulls him down for a kiss and Dean can’t stop the strangled sob that rips out of him before pushing him. Shoving him, as hard as he can. He spits for good measure. “Listen, I don’t know how to tell you this any more plainly. I hate you, you disgust me. Go home and wait for the ending you deserve.” 

Dean tries not to run back into the building, but it’s a close call. Self disgust sits in his belly like a rock. Maybe Ketch will give  _ him _ the ending he deserves. When he gets there, Sam stands stock still on the stage while the company work around him, like a stone in a river. He’s white faced, unslept, unkempt. When Dean gets up to him, he says, “Big storm coming.” 

“You look like shit, Sam.” 

“Yeah, thanks. Dean, there’s something coming. A storm. An epic storm. We should be careful.” 

Dean eyes him. “Now, is this a literal storm or a metaphorical storm, because I think we already knew there was a metaphorical storm coming.” 

Sam makes a growling noise that draws a laugh out of him. “Okay, okay, yes, I get it. Storm, coming. Anything in particular to watch out for?” 

“Flowers? Violets, maybe.They smell like death. Like blood.” 

“Your vision has gotten a little odd.” 

“Tell me about it. Is everything ready for tonight?” 

Dean sighs, watching Charlie boss everyone around. “Soon. Soon, head on a swivel. There’s a non trivial chance that he might take it for what it is.” 

“I think I’m a little fuzzy on what that might be, Dean.”

“An act of war, Sammy. An act of war.”


	14. Let The Devil Wear Black

Dean has made sure that this event is as elegant as possible, red carpets, formal dress. Every single socialite and important person across Europe who still remembers him has been called and invited to this and the coronation. Almost all of them show, mingling with the Mordavian nobles in a brilliant display of glitterati. It is the most filmed and covered event in Mordavia’s history. Because of the ongoing fascination with this tiny monarchy in a world that has mostly shed its royalty, Dean’s made sure to dress he and Sam in their full regalia. They sparkle. Ketch is merely in a tuxedo and Mary in a slinky thing that Dean wishes he could scrub out of his memory forever. The contrast between the brothers and the two of them is striking, and he wonders how everyone else sees it. A part of him worries that they represent the old outdated guard instead of the rightful heirs.

The play will be broadcast on every channel tonight, and the radio as well, by royal command. It’s a brutal move, but Dean has romanced the networks enough that they don’t seem to mind the heavy hand. He’s also managed to get a few networks in from other countries - a move that seems to have cemented his good intentions with both his mother and Ketch. 

Surprising everyone, Castiel and Gabriel show up. Castiel looks dangerous, all in black and silver, his eyes intense and furious. Gabriel is laughing it up with celebrities, but always with one eye on his brother. His brother has both eyes on Dean. 

Sam and Dean sit behind Mary and Ketch in their box seat on the mezzanine, close to the stage. There are a few other boxes as well, all heavy curtains and victorian scrollwork, mostly passed through families. The Duchy of Wallachstein has their own on the opposite side from the Royal Box. He watches as they enter and settle. Gabriel is fidgeting, but Castiel is a taut bowstring, eyes burning into him from here. 

The house lights dim and Garth, dressed as a jester, comes out into a spotlight to begin his monologue. Quietly, Dean mumbles something about a restroom and creeps out of his seat. Sam glares at him, but doesn’t make a move to stop him. He opens the door without making a noise and slips out of the box, hurrying through the empty lobby, around to the other side. As he’s creeping into the Wallachstein box, he chances a look up. Sam is glaring at him, but thankfully, no one else seems to have noticed. Ketch is glued to the stage, a faint frown on his face. Dean shrugs at his brother helplessly, and drops to the floor next to Cas’ chair. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” he whispers.

Castiel stiffens and Gabriel groans out a whisper, “Get the fuck out of here, Dean, or I swear I’ll land in prison for killing you.” 

Dean grins. “C’mon, just give me a minute.” 

Gabriel growls, “It’ll only  _ take _ a minute.”

Cas lays a hand on his brother’s arm. Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Fine. I will be  _ right outside  _ this box, goddamit.” 

When the door’s closed, Dean murmurs, “You look handsome, as usual.” 

Castiel turns his full attention to Dean, and raises an eyebrow. “You are utterly insane.”

“Perhaps. I certainly seem insane, but wait until the wind changes. I won’t seem quite so mad then.” 

Castiel whispers, “It has, several times, and your love changed with it. Go away.” 

“Can I put my head in your lap?” He does it anyway. 

Cas pushes his head away with one finger to the forehead. “No, my lord.”

He bats his eyes. “Please? Pretty please?”

“Your stepfather, if he wasn’t so engrossed in this god awful play, would notice.” 

Dean lets out a soft laugh. “Well, they only had a few weeks to work on it. It doesn’t need to be good, only provocative.” 

He lays his cheek on Cas’ thigh again and is rewarded with the man’s hands tangled in his hair. Neither of them says anything. Castiel’s eyes are glued to the stage, but he’s not really listening or taking it in. Dean closes his own eyes, letting the feel of those long fingers playing across his scalp sink in. He’s uncomfortably turned on, but it doesn’t seem to matter. 

“My Prince,” Castiel whispers eventually, “I cannot sleep. I burn at night. Every thought is filled with the ecstasy of having you under me after all these years. If you think that I will allow you to push me away…” 

His hand traces its way down Dean’s face, over his jaw, to his neck. He’s unable to move or do much of anything but feel it, breath coming in short staccato bursts through his nose. 

Castiel wraps his hand around Dean’s throat. “You need to seriously re-evaluate your position, Your Highness. You belong to me first, and your country second.”

His voice is soft, laced with danger. “You know, no one can see you. All they can see is me.” 

Dean shakes his head. No matter how much he wants to, he can’t, he shouldn’t. So much is going on, it’s too dangerous. He tries to pull back, but Castiel tightens his hand in Dean’s hair, holding him still. With the other hand, he unzips his pants and draws his cock out of his expensive, silk pants. He’s ragingly hard, a tiny pearl of precome beading at the tip. Slowly, Castiel pulls Dean’s head forward. His grip is like iron, but all Dean would have to do is scream…

He doesn’t scream. He does nothing but wait until the only thing he can do is open his mouth obediently and allow him to push inside it. Castiel keeps pressing, inch by inch, until he’s firmly down Dean’s throat. Then his grip slacks, although the hand gripping his hair is still painfully tight. Eyes closed in bliss, Dean goes to work. 

Dean can hear gasps from the audience, and it thrills him down to the core. He imagines, as he sucks, that they’re watching him, that he can’t hide who they are to each other any more. Painfully hard, near to coming in his pants, he chokes himself on it, over and over, frustrated when he can’t keep himself there long. When he pulls off, panting, Dean lets out a small whimper. Castiel’s gentle voice rescues him.

“Good, very good Dean. You think you can hold your breath long enough for me to get off?” 

Dean nods, eagerly. Over eagerly even, desperate to have it. He wants Cas to take his throat, he’d give anything, everything he has or will have if he could only be made to take it, to feel him come. 

“A deep breath then,” he whispers, “and take it.” 

Dean takes a long, deep breath, and Cas pushes him down to the root. Dean chokes until he manages to relax his throat, to let Cas hold him in place. Instead of thrusting, Cas uses his face like a toy, slowly fucking it up and down on his cock. 

There’s laughter and applause from below, and a ripple of noise. He closes his eyes, lungs burning, drifting back into the fantasy. He’s on stage, being fucked for everyone to see, mouth wide, throat bulging with the Duke’s cock. He can feel that Castiel is close. He lets the bad air out of his nose slowly, but his lungs are emptying, and he starts to panic.

Dean tries. He tries not to struggle, but he just can’t fight the need for air. He pulls, making Cas fuck him harder. He plucks at Cas’ hand, and then claws at it, and frantically tries to pull in air through his nose. He can hear Gabriel coming back in, making a disgusted noise, but not leaving. 

“No.” Castiel is talking quietly to Gabriel, and Dean can only pay so much attention. He’s being fucked, and someone can see it, and suddenly he’s coming, convulsing in overwhelming ecstasy. Gabriel says something, whatever, he can’t hear it, but he does hear Castiel respond, and he’s calm, sounds collected, but he can feel the way his hands shake and grasp in his hair.

“No,” Cas whispers, “he’ll take it until I’m done. You can stay if you want, but it might get weird for you.” 

Dean doesn’t know if Gabriel stays. He doesn’t care. He’s floating without air, beyond the need for it now, just a receptacle for Cas’ cock, and that’s all he wants to be. Cas fucks him and fucks him. His ears ring. He can’t see. Then Castiel is coming in a hot flood vicious flood. It’s perfect, it’s too much, Dean swallows what he can, the rest spilling out and over his chin, down his throat. 

Castiel pulls out, allowing Dean to suck in glorious, luxurious air, slumping onto the floor while he gasps, smiling deliriously. Very slowly, the world around him comes back into focus. He can hear the actors and the audience down below, as well as Gabriel’s disgusted throat clearing from the back of the box where he stands with his arms crossed. Wiping his mouth, Dean struggles upwards, sitting in a daze on the empty chair just as Ketch lurches to his feet in a rage. 

“What is this?!” he bellows. The play straggles to a halt and everyone turns to look at him. Becky, bless her soul, turns the follow-spot on Ketch. He’s livid, face distorted in anger, looking every bit the monster that he really is. The blur of motion behind him can only be Sam, leaving the box.

“This is a travesty! A mockery! The King lies dead and you have the gall to bring this foul thing you call a play here? How dare you? Where is the prince? Did he order this?” 

Becky, may she rot in hell, turns the spotlight on Dean. His clothing is rumpled and his hair is a mess, and he isn’t sure how many people can see that his pants are a little wet, but he stands tall, as if nothing is wrong. 

“I am here, Stepfather!” he calls out, clear as a bell.

Ketch looks taken aback, eyes flicking back and forth between Dean and Castiel, but he forges ahead, unable to back out now,. “What is the meaning of this?”

Dean blinks slowly. “I don’t understand what you mean, Stepfather. Could you elaborate?”

He narrows his eyes. Dean can see that his mother, pale and horrified, sits with her face in her hands. Good, strike one for team righteous. 

“This play makes a mockery of your late father and the reason for our celebrations.” 

Dean widens his eyes. “Does it? Charlie!” he calls down.

Charlie curtseys. She looks strangely like his mother, and it makes him do a double take. He suspects she’s using magic with her makeup. Bravo. Loudly, he asks, “What is the plot of this play?”

“Your Highness, it is about a King whose brother murders him and takes over his kingdom.” 

Dean makes a ‘there you have it gesture’. “I don’t see how this is at all mocking my father. He died in a hunting accident, as well you should remember. You were there, weren’t you?”

Ketch looks murderous. Dean continues blithely, endorphins raging through his body. It’s now or never. “My father had no brothers, although he often called  _ you  _ his brother. You arrested His Grace, the Duke of Wallachstein for it, but that was a mistake, as you’ve admitted. So it was an accident, after all, and not murder.” He pauses, revelling in the doubt starting to creep through the crowd. 

“Wasn’t it?” A murmur ripples through the crowd.

Ketch storms out of the box, leaving Mary behind. In the silence afterwards, she lets out one sob.

“There, there, Mother! don’t cry. Your new husband will give you solace. Charlie, please, continue.”

And she does, but the audience isn’t watching. They’re talking.

Dean sits back down, smirking. “Well, that was… something.”

Castiel snorts. “Yes, it certainly was. Are you planning on sleeping with a guard nearby this evening, because I do think Ketch will come to murder you.” 

Dean shakes his head. “I didn’t think that far.” 

“Of course not.” 

Gabriel’s on his phone. “Damn, people move fast. There’s already a video of this on Twitter.” 

Sam bursts into the box, making Gabriel shove over. “Holy fuck, Dean. That was not subtle.” 

“It’s getting a little crowded in here, huh? Not that I mind being pressed up against Sam.”

“Shut up Gabriel,” everyone says in unison.

“Now what?” Sam asks. 

“We plan. I wasn’t really expecting Ketch to throw a public tantrum like this. It really makes him look guilty, so we need to readjust. The coronation is tomorrow, and if he overreacts, I worry that he might order his guard to hurt any of the people outside that don’t like the idea of a murderer on the throne.”

Castiel, readjusting his clothing shamelessly, asks, “They nearly rioted when Mary married him. Do you think it will go that far this time?”

Sam nods, grimly. “I think they’ve been pushed too far. While Dean was campaigning, I started really looking around. The Men of Letters have already started a quiet campaign to uncover families with any amount of non human blood in their ancestry. People have been disappearing. National pride means something to these people. They’ve had enough.” 

Castiel stands and stretches. “Well, then. Let’s retire to my hotel suite and we can come up with a plan of action. Ketch isn’t going to kill us there, at least not until we’re asleep, so we have a few hours.” 

He offers Dean his arm, and despite Sam’s thin lipped frown and Gabriel’s gagging noises, Dean takes it.

It’s not easy to avoid people on the way out. The crowds outside are surging against the ropes, shouting. The flash bulbs going off and the sounds of distant sirens are confusing. He grips Castiel’s arm tightly as they duck into the waiting limo. 

When they arrive at the hotel, there’s a smaller crowd of reporters. Dean’s heart leaps into his throat when he sees the armed and grim faces of a squad of Ketch’s Royal Guard. They sit inside the limo in pensive silence, looking out the tinted windows. Black vans drive up and park in front and behind them, trapping the car in place.

“Who do you think they’re here for?” Gabriel asks, though his tone is defeated.

Castiel smiles coldly. “They are here for me, brother, you know it. They saw us together, and in his mother’s eyes, I have regained control of their son. I threaten every plan they have for tomorrow morning.” 

He reaches for the door handle and Dean stops him. “You can’t. Ketch will kill you.” 

“No,” Castiel turns a little in the seat so he can place a knuckle under Dean’s chin, lifting it, “they won’t. Not until you’ve crowned him, they won’t risk losing your cooperation.”

Dean swallows hard. “Don’t go out there.”

“He has to, Dean,” Sam says softly. “If he resists or runs, they can claim it as proof of treason, or worse, simply kill him while he’s struggling. Then they can come for you, too.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” he spits out, bitterly. 

Castiel leans forward and kisses Dean lightly. “He’s on your side, my Prince. You have to let me go for now. Look at me.” 

Dean lifts his eyes and stares angrily at Castiel, who smiles. “Good. You will be tempted to put my freedom before the welfare of your subjects. They will offer you something that sounds good to you in this state. Do not take it. Be the King your father knew you could be.” 

Before Dean can stop him, he’s opened the limo and slipped out, a blur of black and silver. Castiel inclines his head to the reporters, offering no resistance when the Guard come to collect him. Sam clamps his hand on Dean’s shoulder, holding him in place while they shackle Castiel and load him into one of the vans. He holds him there until the vans are gone and the coast is clear. 

Dean shakes him off and goes into the hotel, ignoring reporters and people who have come to gawk. Sam and Gabriel follow in his wake like silent shadows. 

It takes an hour for Ketch to call him. Dean would be drunk by now, except Sam has confiscated all of the tiny liquor bottles  _ and _ the campagne the hotel had waiting in the suite. Instead, he’s pacing and watching as Sam and Gabriel welcome his troupe to the room. They’ve been coming in a slow but steady trickle for the last half hour, bringing various things with them. Sam takes away all beer and vodka with a firm hand. 

“What do you want?” Dean growls into the phone, picking up before the first ring even ends. 

“Son,” Ketch’s oily smooth voice is enough to make him vibrate with the need to commit violence, “the Duke is safe. He’s comfortable, even. I just wanted to make sure that we were still on the same side, you and I.”

“You mean, you won’t murder him if I crown you as King tomorrow.” 

He tsks. “Shhh, no one is murdering anyone. I simply suspect him of treason. We talked about this. As soon as I’m the King, I can ensure that he is able to travel again, and you can escape to that cesspool of a country with your group of clowns. I’m sure they would love to be able to leave this country in one piece as well.”

Dean looks around the room. Kevin and Charlie are the last to arrive and they’ve brought a pile of pizza. Cas would love the life he’s built for himself, he’s sure of it. “What about Sam? And Gabriel?”

Ketch sighs. “I am too generous with family, it’s long been a fault of mine. Bring them all with you, if you like, although I’m not sure that the next Duke will want to go to America and leave the Duchy in the hands of his cousin. I have no problem with Gabriel, he’s a good subject. Just do this, you will never have to see any of us again.”

He slumps onto a chair, suddenly tird. Sam’s watching him from across the room, eyes narrowed. “Yeah, okay, Ketch. Just. Just don’t... hurt him. I’ll do it.” 

“What do you know, your mother is right. You  _ can _ be reasonable. We will see you tomorrow then. One more thing, though…” 

Dean sighs. “What? What else could you possibly want?” 

Ketch’s voice drops down in tone, dangerous and slick. “If you try to fuck with me tomorrow, I will personally slit his throat right there in the coronation room and make you watch him bleed to death.”

Dean throws his phone at the wall, making it crack and go dead. The room behind him has gone silent. He buries his face in his hands. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

Sam crouches next to him, looking up into his face. “Castiel knew what would happen, Dean. Everyone knew what would happen. We can’t give in.” 

Dean nods tiredly. “I almost believed him for a second. I thought for a hot minute that he’d actually let me and Cas escape together, but when he said he’d let you go, too, I knew. He’s going to kill us all.” 

Charlie leans against the wall. Somehow, she’s got a beer, which she takes a swig of. “So, your Highness, what’s the plan?”

He smiles at her, weary to the bone. He looks around the room at the friends who have become family, wishing that there was any other choice.“We fight. We win. We do not die.”


	15. Plots And Errors

Sam’s dreams are violent that night. He and Dean take one of the rooms in the suite with two beds, leaving the really nice rooms to other people. They sleep there like they did when they were kids and Sam would sneak into Dean’s room to camp out on the floor, talking and laughing at old jokes. Sam drops off in the middle of a sentence and Dean isn’t able to sleep, so he listens to Sam’s even breath in the dark. When he starts dreaming, he’s there to listen and wake him up when it gets to be too much. 

“Storm’s coming,” Sam mutters, still halfway claimed by sleep, “watch out.” 

The dawn comes the way it always does, a sweet stain spreading across the sky. In the street, people are already bustling, cleaning and preparing for the big day. He nudges Sam, waking him up. The servants from the castle start arriving with their clothing, itineraries, and a hundred other things. He stands listlessly for his fitting, noting the way the servants nod and look at each other meaningfully. He knows he looks like a lost and mournful lover and does nothing to hide it. He hopes the story will spread among the servants. He could use all the help he can get.

Dean is wearing the suit that he knows he’d have been crowned in - traditionally white, expensive, beautiful. He looks amazing in it and tries not to think about how Cas would have liked to get him out of it immediately. Then he imagines how Cas would look by his side as his husband at his coronation and has a quiet freak out for a half hour while Sam has his turn being dressed. Sam’s chosen black, his hair slicked back. The quiet but unsettling sense of danger is lurking around him like this again, and Dean wonders for the first time if this is something they can actually pull off. 

When the limo comes, the day could not be more beautiful, cloudless clear sky and a slightly cool breeze. People wave from the sides of the road, held back by mounted police and low wooden barricades. He and Sam ride with the windows down, waving at people as they go. He lets himself sink into the fantasy that he’s on the way to his own coronation, that everything will be okay. 

The limo travels over the bridge that spans the great gorge containing the river Ivlis, bisecting the city. Where Dean and Cas swam in it as kids, Ivlis is large but manageable, but here it churns angrily, flowing from a beautiful but deadly waterfall. The church attended by the royal family is up a steep incline, built on top of a massive cliff across the gorge, facing the falls. Clouds gather overhead, the formerly sunny day slowly turning dark.

The steps of the church are strewn with violets and rose petals. Sam looks a little disturbed as they proceed up, forced to step on them, although he tries hard to avoid it. The sweet smell is sickly and cloying. They’re all over the inside of the church too, impossible to miss as they take their places at the front near the marble altar. Behind it is the famous window, installed by Dean’s great-great grandfather - a huge series of glass panes taking up one entire wall, the waterfall’s thunderous noise muffled to near silence. Beyond that are the distant mountains that ring the country, and above it, the vast sky. In between each pane are stained glass depictions of the Kings of Mordavia fighting monstrosities - werewolves and vampires for the most part. The Mordavian coat of arms, complete with real crossed swords, hangs on either side. One for the Royalty, one for the people. 

Guests, noblemen, elite from across Europe, all start to filter in, including Castiel himself, escorted by Mick. Dean can’t help the smile that bursts out at the sight of him, elegant and pissed in black, glaring daggers at everyone. They sit in the front and Gabriel goes to join them. It clearly annoys Mick, but there’s not much he can do without giving the game away. Dean is sure he has a gun or a knife with him to keep Cas in line. 

God, Castiel is beautiful. He sits, ramrod straight, imperious and furious. He looks dangerous, the blue of his eyes cold fire. Dean is forced to take a deep breath, willing his body to get a grip. They stare at each other long enough to start people in the pews whispering at each other. That is just fine. He suspects that there’s no way out of this but into a box and spending his last moments looking at the love of his life is perfect. He could care less about gossip. 

When everyone has arrived and the cameras are rolling, broadcasting live to the entire country, Ketch and Mary enter the church accompanied by the Royal Guard who fan out to line the walls. Dean notes how very armed they are, though Ketch has decided to go archaic with it, probably to keep alarm to a minimum. They all only have swords, as far as he can see. The couple walk down the aisle, arm in arm. Ketch is wearing purple, like an asshole, and his mother is in white and gold. The snake locks eyes with Dean, his smile glittering with malice. Dean inclines his head respectfully and is rewarded both with a collective murmur from the nobles and a look of uncertainty from Ketch. They stop in front of Dean. He dredges up a smile from someplace inside him and raises his arms in welcome. Everyone falls silent. After a properly dramatic pause, he speaks, voice raised so everyone can hear.

“Mother, good Nobles, and loyal subjects. I stand here now to do a duty for my family. Arthur Ketch came to us in a time when the future for this country was in doubt. He became like a brother to my father, and uncle to myself and my brother, a friend to Mordavia. My uncle, held in such esteem that my father could trust him alone with him in the darkest woods to hunt. My uncle, who held my father in his arms as he died.”

He can see the restless scowl on Mick’s face from here and the hard glittering look in Castiel’s eyes, daring him to fight for what is his. Adrenaline makes him dizzy and he fights down a grin, trying to look the part. 

“I see puzzlement on the faces of my people. Why was I not at my own father’s funeral? Why did I not take my throne and where have I been these last years?” He pauses again, waiting past the point where a proper dramatic pause would end, waiting until people start talking, until the muttering gets loud. Ketch scowls at him and Mitch makes a quick gesture with the arm closest to Castiel. There’s a flicker in Cas’ eyes that would be a proper flinch to anyone else. Yeah, someone’s gonna die.

Dean shouts over the muttered voices, “I was kept from it! Exiled by my own father for the sin of falling in love. My mother has asked me to do the hardest thing, the most noble thing, and put my people first. She has asked me to crown as King, the man my father loved the most.” 

Mary beams at him, but Ketch’s eyes are puzzled now, calculating. Dean has to speed this up or Castiel is going to do something impulsive, he can see it in the way he’s licking his lips, the shift of his hips and his hands. Sam brings Dean the crown and stands behind him, arms clasped behind his back. 

“Arthur Ketch, kneel.” He holds the crown aloft, looking into Castiel’s eyes, meeting flinty rage with apologetic softness. 

Ketch kneels, victory practically oozing from his pores. Dean smiles down at him. “Do you really think I would let the man who murdered my father, threatened my brother, mesmerized my mother, and kidnap my fiance  _ also  _ murder my countrymen?” 

There’s a pause, as if the world itself were going in slow motion. Ketch looks up at Dean in surprise at the same time that Castiel lets out a pleased shout, grappling with Mick who has a sudden glint of steel in his hand. The walls of the church seem to vibrate with the force of a booming thunderclap just as Dean, the crown raised up high, brings it down across Ketch’s face. Sam dives for their mother, grabbing and holding her fast. 

All hell breaks loose. The Royal Guard dive in to protect Ketch, only to find resistance. Charlie and the troupe hiding in the audience, surge forward, and they are joined by the unexpected help from every servant still in this hall who rise up with them, putting their bodies in harms’ way for their prince. People scream and run about in chaos, throwing the huge doors open to flee out into the sudden raging storm. Wind and rain lash at the windows, the boom of thunderclaps underscoring the violence.

Ketch is on his feet, stumbling away and grabbing one of the swords from the wall. Mitch slumps into the pew and then slides to the ground, life blood spraying from his neck across Castiel, the floor, and several people huddled behind them. Mary grapples with Sam, every inch of her father’s daughter as she fights fiercely to subdue her son. Dean grabs a sword from the other side and stands to face Ketch, a grim smile etched onto his face.

Lightning flashes and the next thunderclap sees them both fighting for their lives. Despite Dean’s training, Ketch is a shade better, slowly pushing him back towards the altar. Blood flows from a wound on his temple where the crown struck him. Dean slips on violet petals, slick with Mick’s blood, stumbling and falling. 

“You think your father would want this?” he sneers, pressing his advantage. “Brawling over the crown, squabbling like children? You’re fighting for the  _ wrong side, _ you spoiled brat.”

Thunderclap. The lights flicker and go out. Dean can hear Castiel fighting to get to him, surrounded by Royal Guards who have reinforcements from outside. There’s a gurgling noise behind him as one of them falls, choking on his own blood. Sam is shouting at his mother. 

“Fuck, Arthur,” Dean pants. He’s on the defensive and losing, pushed backwards until he falls against the altar. Distantly, he realizes that it’s cold to the touch. “You really just adore the sound of your own voice. I fight for my country and for love. You’re just a dick.” 

Ketch laughs, framed by the flicker of lightning, raising his sword to strike a fatal blow. “You’ll die for it, Dean, and no one will mourn your passing.” 

It hurts, like nothing else. Not any monster claw or bite, no bullet or burn he’s ever had compares with the white-hot cold of Mordavian steel slicing through him. His blood runs, hot and fresh down the altar, dripping down the steps to pool into a small lake of red. Ketch pulls the sword out of him and draws back his hand to do it again. 

A hard clap of thunder rattles the windows. There’s a blur of black and silver as Castiel, eyes glowing bright blue, tackles Ketch. They fly backwards into the window, where for a moment, Dean can see them both tumbling through the air and into the gorge. Then another crack of thunder comes, and it’s just Ketch, screaming in terror, swallowed by water and mist. His mother’s piercing wail gets swallowed by the sound of the storm and the ceaseless noise of the waterfall. 

Castiel stands over Dean, bellowing, “Sam!”

Sam, leaving Mary in a puddle of her own grief, comes to Dean’s side. In a panic, he tries pressing his hands against the wound. “No, no! No, c’mon, Dean, no.” 

What’s left of the Royal Guard, intent on swarming up the stairs, encounter Gabriel at the top of them with a pistol. The ones in the back pile into the ones in the front as they come to a skidding stop. 

“Don’t you boys want to rethink this?” Gabriel’s covered in gore, a deranged smile plastered to his face. “ _ His Highness _ is hurt. Get help and perhaps his brother will ignore your disloyalty.” 

Dean is fading, and he knows it. He reaches up and pats Sam’s face clumsily, smearing his blood on his cheek. “Take care of Mom, Sammy. Be a good king.” 

Sam shakes his head. “Shut up, shut up, Dean, shut up.” 

Dean looks at Castiel. He’s still angry, eyes flickering with light, but he knows this time Cas is mad at him. “I never deserved you. I’m sorry I won’t get to marry you. You’d look good in a crown.” 

He’s having a hard time seeing Cas. Everything is cold, and fuzzy around the edges. Dean struggles to stay awake, just so he can look at him for as long as he can, but he’s tired. 

“Jusssst,” he whispers, “gonna sleep a minute.” 

The last thing he sees before he dies is Castiel’s eyes, glowing bright and blue. 

“No,” he says, and the room lights up around him, white and electric with angelic lightning.


	16. Never Doubt I Love

They have the coronation on the first day of Spring, at the end of the three day long festival. The streets are festooned with fresh white flowers and bright blue ribbons, waving in the cool breeze. The festival had been properly done this time, though some might have detected a bit of a subdued vibe to the people. They’d seen enough bloodshed, and Ketch’s network had dug itself in deep - Sam’s hunt for them after the disaster at the church had been brutal and thorough. 

When the day arrives, and the traditional white glittering chariot comes down the street pulled by a team of white horses, people wave and cheer. Isn’t too bad, they say to each other in the pub afterwards, that the King’s brother hadn’t been there to see it. He’d have been so proud.

“Yeah,” Dean says into the phone, “and why  _ weren’t  _ you here, Sam? I wanted it done properly.” 

Sam sighs. “I watched it on TV. C’mon, you know I’m at a crucial point here. I can’t just swan off whenever I want.” 

Dean opens his mouth to grumble but Castiel takes the phone away. “Don’t worry, Sam. I’ve explained it to him, as well as the importance for old rituals to take on new life. He’s being an over dramatic princess today.” 

He snorts. “Over dramatic King, Wallachstein. Don’t you forget it, or you’ll go back to the dungeon.” 

Castiel smiles slowly, eyeing Dean. “Will you excuse us Sam? His Majesty needs a lesson.” 

Sam makes a distressed noise, “C’mon you guys, why do you always do this when I’m around? Fine, yes, whatever. I’ll see you next month. Don’t break the country while I’m gone.” 

Castiel throws the phone over his shoulder, eyes trained on Dean. He pushes him back into his seat with one finger so he can straddle him, one knee on each side of his lap. Dean smiles up at him and wiggles his ring finger.

“When are you going to make me an honest monarch, your Grace?”

For the first time in ages, Castiel looks uncertain. “The public just got used to the idea that one of their noblemen is not entirely human.”

Castiel had given himself away on national television. While everyone else ran, some intrepid journalist had kept hold of a camera, getting everything live as it happened. The image of him glowing with angelic power, keeping Dean alive until an ambulance arrived, had been blasted across the networks for weeks. Gabriel had managed to hustle him off unnoticed in the chaos after help had arrived, stowing him securely in their home until they were sure no one was coming to kill him. 

Unlike the footage of the violence, it hadn’t yet leaked out of the country, and Dean was sure he had Charlie to thank for it. There was fierce debate about it, with many nobles yelling for Castiel’s head, mostly led by his cousin. They’d been firmly shut down by Sam in Dean’s absence. His recovery was long and arduous, but he’d had a press conference to talk about everything he’d learned in America. He was pale and walked with a cane, but the fierce look in his eyes was undeniable. It had led to a lot of debate about the nature of hunting. Everything was changing. Mary had escaped and was nowhere to be found, which worries Cas more than Dean. Someday, he argued, she’ll come to get her revenge. Dean laughed it off; that was what he had Sam for. 

Dean kisses him, gently. “You’re going to marry me, Castiel Novak, and anyone who wants to get to you can come through me.” 

Castiel wraps his fingers around Dean’s throat, smiling when he goes still. “For now, my King, you need to be taught a lesson about civility.” 

They kiss then, soft but possessive on both sides. No one will separate them again


End file.
